
Class A 






Book__ 



Copyright^ 

&DPXRIGHX DEPOSm 



0C1 



> 1885 



HANDBOOK OF POETICS 



Stutietxts of lEngltsi) Ferse* 



FRANCIS 



BY 



UMMERE, Ph.D., 



Head Master of the Swain Free School, New Bedford, and formerly 
Instructor in English in Harvard College. 



0>®<0 




BOSTON: 

GINN & COMPANY. 

1885. 



Cct^ju'V* 



V 



*%{ 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, by 

FRANCIS B. GUM MERE, 
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



J. S. Cushing & Co., Printers, Boston. 






PREFACE. 



This book is published in the belief that many- 
teachers have felt the lack of a concise and systematic 
statement of the principles of poetry. Such text-books 
are taught with good result in German schools, and are 
intended to simplify, not to complicate, the study of 
literature. The greater part of the literature taught 
in our schools and colleges is in verse ; but, in too 
many cases, the scholar studies poems without having 
acquired any definite and compact knowledge of the 
science of poetry. This " Handbook of Poetics " is 
meant to aid the teacher in laying so necessary a 
foundation. 

The author has tried to take a judicious position 
between exploded systems on one hand, and, on the 
other, those promising but not yet established theories 
of the latest writers on Poetics — especially in the 
matter of Versification — which, brilliant and often 
enticing, have nevertheless failed so far to win general 
assent. Effort has been made to be accurate without 
being pedantic, and to avoid the bareness of the primer 
as well as the too abundant detail of the treatise. 



IV PREFACE. 

Whether this effort has been successful or not, must 
be tried by a practical test, — by the judgment, not — 
as King James puts it — of "ignorants obdurde," nor 
of " curious folks," nor even of "learned men, quha 
thinks thame onelie wyis," but rather of " the docile 
bairns of knowledge." 

The examples are by no means intended to be ex- 
haustive. Many obvious ones, as the Olney Hymns 
or the'Dunciad or the Epitaph on the Countess of 
Pembroke; are omitted for the same reason which Cato 
gave for the absence of his statue from the forum. The 
pupil should collect his own examples as far as he can ; 
and every scrap of verse which he reads should be 
subjected to a close analysis as regards its meaning, its 
style, its rhythm. This study of the science of poetry 
is altogether distinct from the art of rhetoric : the two 
should be carefully held apart. 

Of the many books consulted, Wackernagel's Lec- 
tures on Poetik, and the works on Metre by Child, 
Schipper, Ellis, and Ten Brink, may be named as espe- 
cially helpful. The article on " Poetry " in the last 
volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica did not come to 
hand in time to be of use even in the revision of the 

proof-sheets. 

F. B. G. 

New Bedford, 7 September, 1885. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

INTRODUCTION i 



PART I • SUBJECT-MATTER. 

Chapter I. — The Epic. Epic Poetry. Written Epic. Later 
Forms : Legends, Allegory, Reflective, Descriptive, Pasto- 
ral, Satiric, Ballads ........ 7 

Chapter II. — Lyric Poetry. Sacred Lyric. Patriotic Lyric. 
Lyric of Love. Of Nature. Of Grief. Reflective Lyric. 
Vers de Societe. Other Forms. Lyrical Ballads . . 40 

Chapter III. — Dramatic Poetry. Beginnings. Miracle Plays. 
Moralities. Foreign Models. Interlude. Different Kinds 
of Drama. Tragedy. Comedy. Reconciling Drama. 
Other Forms. Outward Form of Drama . . . . 58 



PART II: STYLE. 

Chapter IV. — Poetic Style. Historical Sketch. Tropes. 
Metaphor. Personification. Allegory. Simile. Tropes 
of Connexion. Of Contrast 83 

Chapter V. — Figures. Repetition. Contrast. Combina- 
tion 11S 



VI TABLE OF CONTENTS. 

PART III: METRE. 

PAGE 

Chapter VI. — Rhythm. Quantity. Accent. Pauses. Rime. 
Blank Verse. Qualities and Combinations of Sound. Slur- 
ring and Eliding ......... 133 

Chapter VII. — Metres of English Verse. General Principles. 
Anglo-Saxon Metres. Transition Period. Chaucer's Metres. 
Modern Metres. Verse of One Stress; of Two Stresses; of 
Three ; of Four ; of Five ; Shakspere and Milton ; Verse of 
Six Stresses ; of Seven ; Miscellaneous . . . .166 

Chapter VIII. — The Stanza or Strophe. The Sonnet. French 
Forms . . . ... . . . . . 234 



INTRODUCTION. 



POETRY belongs with music and dancing, and is 
opposed to the arts of painting, sculpture, and 
architecture. The latter class is concerned with rela- 
tions of space ; we see and touch and measure its 
products. But the former class has for main principle 
the idea of motion, of succession, and therefore deals 
with relations of time. In fact, the three arts — poetry, 
music, dancing — were once united as a single art. 
Little by little, their paths diverged ; but for the oldest 
times they were inseparable. The principle governing 
this single early art was harmony. Harmony consists 
really in a certain repetition. Thus two parallel lines 
agree or harmonize because one repeats the conditions 
of the other. So in poetry, or music, or dancing, a cer- 
tain succession of accents, or notes, or steps is repeated, 
thus establishing the relation of harmony. To be sure, 
this harmony of recurrence is found to some extent in 
all speech ; in poetry, however, it is carried to a system, 
and under the name rhythm or metre is the distinguish- 
ing and necessary mark of poetry. Aristotle and his 
school maintained that " invention " was the soul of 
poetry. The substance, say they, is the main thing. 
But later criticism asserts that in poetry the form 
(metre) is the principal requisite. A late writer has 
declared that " metre is the first and only condition 
absolutely demanded by poetry. ,, 



POETICS. 



Not only, however, was harmony carried further in 
poetry than in common speech (prose) ; the element of 
Adornment, the so-called figurative tendency of lan- 
guage, grew into a system, and became a secondary 
mark of poetry. Hence Poetics must treat not only 
Metre, but also Style. 

Further, it is hardly necessary to add, the metre 
and the style must be used in setting forth some worthy 
Subject. Hence the three divisions of Poetics: Subject- 
Matter, Style, Metre. 

The origin and the nature of poetry are subjects on 
which it is easy to say a great deal, but hard to say any- 
thing definite or satisfactory. Poetry had its beginning 
in religious rites ; it was a ceremony in which voice and 
foot kept time, — a wild sort of hymn. This rude germ 
grew, became an art, and went through the process of 
" differentiation " ; till, with maturing time, Epic was 
developed and yielded certain territory to Lyric ; both, 
finally, ceded ground to Drama ; and from these three 
as centres went out a variety of minor divisions. 

We may be quite sure of the early origin of poetry. 
It is about as old as language itself ; and it invariably 
precedes prose. The domain of prose includes the rela- 
tions of things in themselves and among themselves. 
Poetry submits all objects to an imaginative process, 
and asks how they concern not real, but ideal, interests. 
The popular use of the words " poetic " and "prosaic" 
— as applied to a landscape, or the like — shows this dif- 
ference. Perception, imagination, are found in vigorous 
development among primitive races ; whereas the rea- 
soning powers, the faculty of abstraction, are at their 
feeblest. Hence we can easily understand that a 



INTRODUCTION. 3 

splendid poem could arise among a people utterly 
unable to follow the simplest processes in algebra or 
geometry, — sciences which deal with the relations of 
things among themselves. Undeveloped races, like the 
North American Indians, in common with ordinary 
children, speak a " poetic" language, — i.e.> one based 
on fancy and not on reason. Every known literature 
asserts this precedence of verse. Homer came before 
Herodotus, — and turn to what language we will, its old- 
est monuments are song. Fables and traditions all point 
to the great age of poetry. The Greeks said that poetry 
was invented by the gods. In the Norse myth, Saga 
was Odin's daughter : " like the Muse, Zeus' daughter, 
she instructs men in the art of song." " The old 
poetry," says J. Grimm, "was a sacred matter, imme- 
diately related to the gods, and bound up with prophecy 
and magic." The Gallic druids taught their sacred lore 
in verse ; and many ancient laws {e.g., of the Cretans) 
were in poetic form. Indeed, Macaulay went so far 
{Essay on Milton) as to assume that the older poetry 
is, the better, — that it degenerates as civilization 
advances. 

The nature of poetry, — what is poetry ? No com- 
prehensive, positive answer can be given. Many have 
essayed a definition of poetry. " It is a criticism of 
life," says one. " It is the beautiful representation of 
the beautiful, given in words," says another. " It is 
imitation by words," says Aristotle. "Poetry," defines 
Carriere, " speaks out the thought that lies in things." 
Ruskin (in his Modern Painters, corrected in his Eng- 
lisli Prosody) calls poetry " the presentment, in musical 
form, to the imagination, of noble grounds for the noble 



4 POETICS. 

emotions. " For a longer and spirited definition, cf. Car- 
lyle, On Heroes, Chap. III. It is easy to see tfiat no one 
of these definitions is scientific ; they are all aesthetic 
and vague. Or else they simply predicate certain 
qualities of poetry, — as that it is " simple, sensuous, 
and impassioned." Only a negative definition of poetry 
can be given in precise terms ; so all agree in calling 
many characteristics of language unpoetical. But there 
is really no established standard by which we can try 
true poetry, as a chemist tries gold. Practical tests 
fail. Thus, Mr. Swinburne (with other critics) con- 
demns Byron and lauds Coleridge ; Mr. Matthew Arnold 
praises Byron, and so does the best German criticism ; 
while Mr. Ruskin lays violent hands on Christabel {Eng. 
Prosody, pp. 31, 32). Again, as we have seen, modern 
criticism is inclined to test poetry by its form ; but so 
sound a critic as Dryden declared invention to be the 
true criterion of the* " maker's " work. 1 

The reason of this is plain. Poetry, so far as the 
higher criticism goes, cannot be an exact science ; for 
we saw that it differs radically from prose in that it 
deals with fancy, and is foreign to abstractions and the 
rational consideration of objects in themselves. The 
qualities of a triangle appeal to the rational judgment, 
and admit of absolute precision in the verdict passed 
upon them by the mind. Poetry makes no such appeal ; 
we look upon poetry in the shifting lights of the imag- 
ination. In order to be precise, therefore, we must 
abandon the higher criticism, — give up all inquiry as 

1 Sidney, too, regarded verse as " an ornament [but] no cause to Poetry," 
and says: " One may bee a poet without versing, and a versifier without 
poetry." 



INTRODUCTION. 5 

to the inmost nature of poetry, and the tests by which 
we try the highest forms of poetic expression, — and, 
accepting poetry as an element of human life, simply 
regard those facts in the different phases of poetry 
about which most men agree. Ben Jonson distin- 
guishes " the thing fain'd, the faining, and the fainer : 
so the Poeme y the Poesy, and the Poet!' All study of 
the' first and last of these, the poem and the poet, 
whether it is in the domain of criticism, or in the 
school-room, should be based on a knowledge of "the 
faining," of Poetry itself, its principles and divisions. 
It is the object of this little treatise to lay down those 
principles in as simple a way as possible. Great care 
should be taken to distinguish this science of poetry 
from the art of verse-making. Thus, there were Old- 
Norse schools of poetry ; and the same sort of instruc- 
tion was given among the " Meistersanger " of Germany. 
The science, on the other Jiand, aims to formulate, as 
far as it can, the principles of poetic expression. It has 
received special attention in modern times from the 
Germans ; but it is as old as Plato and Aristotle. 
Among the modern writers who have brought to its 
discussion a wealth of critical insight are Lessing (espe- 
cially in his Laoeoon, 1766), Kant, Goethe, the brothers 
Schlegel, Schiller, Hegel, and Vischer. 



Part I. 

SUBJECT-MATTER. 



CHAPTER I. — THE EPIC. 

Everyone knows that two of the most important 
factors in human affairs are Church and State. Again, 
every student of history is aware that the further back 
we go, the more intimate are the relations between 
these two great powers. Looking towards the begin- 
nings of civilization, we see the lines of statecraft and 
priestcraft steadily converging. Where a Gladstone 
stands to-day, stood, some three centuries ago, a Car- 
dinal Wolsey. In the remote past, in the dawn 
of history (a relative term, differing with different 
nations), we find law and religion to be convertible 
terms. Even in highly-civilized Greece, the Laws — 
cf. Sophocles, Oed. Tyr. 864 sqq. — were sacred. So 
it was with our own ancestors, the Germanic tribes, 
whose nature and customs fell under the keen eyes of 
Tacitus, and are noted down in his Germania. Let us 
take his description of the Germanic custom of casting 
lots, — a ceremony at once legal and religious. He 
says (c. 10) that " a branch is cut from a fruit-bearing 
tree and divided into little blocks, which are distin- 
guished by certain marks, and scattered at random 



8 POETICS. 

over a white cloth. Then the state-priest if it is a 
public occasion, the father of the family if it is do- 
mestic, after a prayer to the gods, lookiitg toward 
heaven, thrice picks up a block. These he now 
interprets according to the marks previously made." 

What renders the ceremony of importance to us is 
the fact that the " interpretation " Tacitus mentions 
was poetical, and that the " marks " were runes, i.e., 
the rude alphabet employed by the Germanic tribes. 
According as these mystic symbols fell, the priest 
made alliterating verses declaring the result of the 
ceremony. The letters gave the key to the rimes. 
Since the beech-tree (Anglo-Sax. hoc, " book," but also 
"beech," like German Bitch and Buche) was a favorite 
wood for the purpose, and the signs were cut in (A.-S. 
writan, " cut into," then " write"), we win a new mean- 
ing for the phrase "to write a book." Further, to read, 
really means to interpret, — as in the common " rede the 
riddle." So in the original, literal sense, the priest read 
the writing of the book. Since he read it poetically, and 
as a decree of the gods, and as something legally bind- 
ing on the people, we may assume (bearing in mind the 
antiquity of priestcraft) that poetry, the earliest form of 
literature, begins among the priesthood in the service 
of law and religion. [Cf p. 3 of the Introduction.] 

But this unit of sacred law had two sides. On the 
one hand were such ceremonies as the above, — a 
practical use, which concerned the people. Late 
" survivals " of these rites may still be found in the 
peasant's hut and in the modern nursery, e.g., the 
time-honored custom of saying a rime to see who shall 
be "it" for a game. But on the other hand was formal 



THE EPIC. 



worship, — the purely religious side. The tribe boasted 
its origin from a god, and at stated seasons joined in 
solemn worship of its divine ruler and progenitor. To 
this god the assembled multitude sang a hymn, — at 
first merely chorus, exclamation and incoherent chant, 
full of. repetitions. As they sang, they kept time with 
the foot in a solemn dance, which was inseparable from 
the chant itself and governed the words (cf. our metrical 
term "foot"). As order and matter penetrated this 
wild ceremony, there resulted a rude hymn, with intel- 
ligible words and a connecting idea. Naturally this 
connecting idea would concern the deeds of the god, — 
his birth and bringing up and his mighty acts. Thus a 
thread of legend would be woven into the hymn, — 
a thread fastened at one end to the human associ- 
ations of the tribe, but losing itself in the uncertainty 
of a miraculous and superhuman past. 

But a third element comes in. Besides the legen- 
dary thread, we have the mythological. In order to 
explain the natural processes about him, early man 
peopled the universe with a multitude of gods. Or, 
to speak more clearly, he attributed will and passion to 
the acts of nature. Something dimly personal stood 
behind the flash of lightning, the roaring of the wind. 
The ways and doings of these nature-gods were set in 
order, and, of course, were in many cases brought in 
direct connection with the tribal or legendary god. 
Hence a second sort of thread woven into the hymn, — 
mythology. But both legend and mythology are nar- 
rative. The hymn thus treated ceased to be a mere 
hymn. The chorus and the strophe were dropped ; 
instead of sets of verses (strophe) the verses ran on in 



10 , POETICS. 

unbroken row. Single persons (minstrels) took the 
place of the dancing multitude, and chanted in a sort 
of " recitative," some song full of myth and legend, but 
centred in the person of the tribal god. Now what is 
such a song ? It is The Epic. [Epic, from Greek Epos, 
a "word," then a "narration": cf. Saga = something 
said.] 

It is important to remember that the Epic was not 
the result of that individual effort to which we now give 
the name of poetical composition. 

To use Mr. Tylor's words {Primitive Culture, i. 
273), epic poetry goes back " to that actual experience 
of nature and life which is the ultimate source of human 
fancy." Perhaps "source" is not quite accurate; we 
should prefer to say that it is experience of nature and 
experience of life (i.e., mythology and legend), which 
awaken and stimulate the inborn human fancy, that is, 
the creative power of poetry. This. creative power, in 
early times, when the great epics were forming, when 
their materials were gradually drawing together, lay 
rather in the national life itself than in any individual. 
There were no poets, only singers. The race or nation 
was the poet. For the final shape in which these epics 
come down to us, we must assume the genius of a 
singer-poet. 

We note further that the personages of the Epic must 
be humanized, — i.e., partake of our passions and other 
characteristics. Otherwise they could not awaken 
human interest. But the background across which 
these huge beings move must be the twilight of legend 
and myth. — Instead of taking the Homeric poems as 
illustration, we prefer to give a brief outline of our own 
national epic, — Beowulf. 



THE EPIC. II 

[Beowulf, the only complete epic preserved from Anglo-Saxon 
heathen poetry, is based on legends and myths that arose among the 
northern Germanic tribes before the conquest of Britain in the Fifth 
Century. The poem in its present shape was probably composed at 
one of the Northumbrian courts before the Eighth Century. The 
Ms. is a West Saxon copy of the Tenth Century. There are 
besides a few fragments preserved. Probably many other Anglo- 
Saxon epics were lost in the wholesale and wanton destruction of 
Mss. when the monasteries were broken up under Henry VIII.] 

The story of Beowulf is now becoming familiar to all 
readers ; we give a bare outline. A powerful king of 
the Danes (Hrothgar) builds a banquet-hall. But he 
does not enjoy it long. A dreaded monster (Grendel) 
lives in the neighboring fen, and hears with envious 
heart the sounds of revelry. So he comes at dead of 
night, enters the hall, seizes thirty of the sleeping vas- 
sals, and bears them off to be devoured in his home. 
Nothing can withstand him. The banquet-hall lies 
empty and useless. Over the sea lives a hero who is 
moved to help Hrothgar. The hero's name is Beowulf. 
He bids his men make ready a boat, and with fourteen 
vassals puts to sea. He arrives at Hrothgar's court, 
and a grand banquet is held in the hall ; but at night 
the Danes retire, leaving Beowulf and his warriors to 
guard the post of danger. Grendel comes, and a terrific 
combat follows between him and Beowulf, which ends 
in victory for the latter. He tears out Grendel's giant 
arm from its socket ; with " shrill death-song " the 
monster reels away to die amid his fen. That day the 
Danes and their deliverers rejoice, and there is another 
feast. The Danes now remain in the hall ; Beowulf 
goes elsewhere. With night comes the mother of 
Grendel, a huge and terrible monster, to avenge her 



12 POETICS. 

son's death, and kills one of the dearest vassals of the 
king. The next morning Beowulf goes on a quest of 
vengeance. He comes to the dismal home of the mon- 
ster, plunges into the dreary waters, and far below the 
surface meets and conquers the hideous being. The 
foes of Hrothgar are now put to death, and Beowulf, 
laden with gifts and honor, returns home. 

Fifty years pass. Beowulf is an old king who has 
ruled with strong hand and gentle heart over his people. 
But now a dragon comes to waste the land. The old 
hero girds on his armor for a final struggle. He goes 
down to the dragon's cave ; but at sight of the monster, 
belching flame, the vassals of Beowulf ignominiously 
fly, and the king fights single-handed and weary against 
the fire and poison of the dragon. At last, one young 
warrior, ashamed of his flight, returns ; and together, 
king and vassal slay the monster. But Beowulf is 
mortally wounded. After a few strong words, exulting 
that he has fought the good fight of life, he dies. 
They build a great mound for him by the sea, and 
bury him with honors of flame and song. 

This is the epic of Beowulf. Now let us try to trace 
those threads of myth and legend mentioned above. 
We should guard against a too implicit trust in appar- 
ently conclusive parallels between mythology and epic ; 
but still, in taking the following analysis (mainly that 
of Miillenhoff and Ten Brink), we shall not be far out of 
the way. The principle is sound. 

The northwest coast of Europe, where our epic had 
its origin, is exposed to the ravages of ocean storms. 
Over the low lands, along the borders of the Cimbrian 
peninsula, swept in fury the tempests of spring and fall. 



THE EPIC. 13 

The sea broke its bounds and raged over the flat coun- 
try, sweeping away houses and men. Against these 
wild storms came the gentle spring-god, the god of 
warmth and calm. This god men called Beowa. The 
gcgl conquers the monsters of the stormy sea, follows 
them even into their ocean home and puts them to 
death. Grendel and his mother may fairly be taken as 
types of these storms. In autumn they burst forth 
afresh. The waning power of summer closes with them 
in fiercest struggle. After long combat both the year 
and the storms sink into the frost-bound sleep of winter. 
So much for "the experience of nature," — i.e., myth- 
ology. Now for the "experience of life," — legend. 
History tells us that early in the Sixth Century, one 
Hygelac, king of the Getae, came down from the north 
and went plundering along the Rhine. The Frankish 
king, Theudebert, met and fought Hygelac, and the lat- 
ter fell. His follower and nephew, however, Beowulf, 
son of Ecgtheow, did great deeds. Fighting until all 
others had fallen, he escaped by a masterful piece of 
swimming, and went back to his island home. His 
fame spread far and wide. He grew to be a national 
hero. Songs were sung about him. Wandering min- 
strels chanted his praise from tribe to tribe. What 
these wandering minstrels were, and how important 
was their profession, may be gathered from an Anglo- 
Saxon poem, which is probably " the oldest monument 
of English poetry," — Widsith, "the far-wanderer." In 
the one hundred and forty-three verses preserved to us, 
the minstrel tells of his travels, of the costly gifts he 
has received, of maxims of government he has heard, 
of famous heroes, kings and queens whom he has visited 



14 POETICS. 

(a wild confusion of half historical, half mythical names 
from different lands and times), and of the countries he 
has seen. He refers to some evidently well-known 
legends. Widsith is the ideal minstrel ; and this strange 
poem gives us ample hints as to the spread of legends 
by men of his craft. Then, too, Tacitus tells us of this 
custom (Ann. 2, 88) ; Arminius, liberator of Germany, 
" caniturque adhuc barbaras apud gentes." 1 In all this 
singing, there was small risk that Beowulf s deeds would 
lose any of their greatness. In fact, they acquired at 
length certain touches of the supernatural. 

Thus, then, we have hymns in honor of Beowa, the 
liberating and national god ; songs in honor of Beowulf, 
the national hero. Little by little, the two became one 
person ; and myth and legend, hymns and songs, crys- 
tallized about the common centre, until some gifted 
minstrel gave them form and unity in the epic of Beo- 
wulf. Unfortunately the form halts behind the mat- 
ter : owing to the rapid christianizing of England, the 
epic, says Ten Brink, was " frozen in the midst of its 
development. " Such as it is, however, it is a noble 
herald of the long line of English poetry.- — We now 
abandon the historic method, and look at the epic as it 
lies before us as well in the Iliad and the Odyssey, as 
in Beowulf. 

1 Jornandes, writing about 552 A.D., mentions the legendary songs of 
the Goths. Thus, in regard to their migration toward the Black Sea : 
"quemadmodum in priscis eorum carminibus, psene historico ritu, in com- 
mune recolitur." Cf. W. Grimm, Heldensage, 1. 



THE EPIC. 15 

§ I. GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS OF THE EPIC. 

i. The epic must rely solely on Imagination and 
Memory. It deals with the past, while lyric poetry 
deals with the present. The individual mithor has 
little to do with the epic. The singer is a part of what 
he sings, whereas in lyric poetry the lyric is a part of 
the singer, is subjective. We may call most modern 
poetry a manufacture, something made; the epic is a 
growth. It is based on what has happened (history), 
or what men think has happened (legend and myth). 
An epic nearly always begins by telling zvhat it is going 
to sing : it is the wrath of Achilles, the wanderings of 
Ulysses, the woes of the Nibelungen. Very striking is 
the form of the Germanic epic, "We have heard/' or 
"I (the singer) have heard." There is no invention. 
Indeed, the fate and story of his hero were generally 
well known to the minstrel's audience. His skill lay in 
presenting the legend with freshness and force. 

2. The epic is simple in construction. It must flow 
on with smooth current, bearing the hearer to a defi- 
nite goal. The metre must be uniform. 

3. The epic enforces no moral. It tells a story, and 
the moral is in solution with the story. As Aristotle 
says, the epic "represents only a single action, entire 
and complete. ,> There is no comment on that action. 

4. The epic concentrates its action in a short time. 
In the Iliad the important events happen in a few days, 
though the # » war lasts ten years. In the Odyssey the 
time is six weeks. In Beowulf we have two main sit- 
uations, in the first part taking up little time, and in the 
second part one brief scene. 



l6 POETICS. 

5. Among the minor characteristics of the epic may 
be mentioned its love for Episodes. An episode is a 
story apparently not needed for the main plot of the 
poem, but really necessarily connected with some part 
of the action. In the Aeneid, the story of the destruc- 
tion of Troy is a good example of the episode. 

6. The singer's memory was in those days of no 
written records prodigiously strong. He also often im- 
provised passages. Hence he needed rests in his song. 
These were supplied by the repetition of certain sen- 
tences, often of whole speeches — as frequently in the 
Odyssey. So there were many phrases and epithets 
which were common property and became epic formulas : 
"the wine-dark sea" was such an epithet; "now when 
they had put away the wish for meat and drink" was 
such a sentence. Epithets were particularly character- 
istic of our own epic. Thus for "sea" we have "the 
whale's path," — a trope known to the Norse epic as a 
Kenning. (Cf. Part II.) 

7. -The epic loves dialogues. This dramatic element 
makes the story livelier, and gives the singer opportu- 
nity to do a little acting as he chants his verses. 

8. Finally, we must remember, that in general it is 
the action of the whole, rather than the character of 
the particular, that is of chief importance in the. epic. 
In the drama, on the contrary, the action depends on 
the characters; they shape it, determine it: in any 
mind the character of Hamlet outweighs, in import- 
ance, his story. % 

These are the more prominent traits of the epic. In 
its purity such a form of poetic composition is national, 
i.e., it is the spontaneous growth of a whole people. 



THE EPIC. 17 

It belongs to the first vigorous manhood of a race, just 
as the race is becoming conscious of itself and its im- 
portance, and mostly it springs from some victorious con- 
tact with neighboring tribes. Thus the Greek epic 
points to the struggle between Hellenic tribes of the 
western and eastern shores of the Aegean. 

[For a fair summary of the rise of an epic, see the 
brief Introduction to Butcher and Lang's translation of 
the Odyssey.'] 

§ 2. THE WRITTEN EPIC. 

Fancy and memory, the factors of the national epic, 
soon have a rival. As in individual life, so in the life 
of the race, close upon imagination and mem<5ry follows 
reason. As reason waxes, fancy wanes. Reason indu- 
ces man to search after causes, not to trust the mere im- 
pression of the senses. But belief in the impressions of 
sense is the foundation of the early epic. To illustrate : 
a child, and the world in its youth, are alike satisfied, 
if told that the fire is eating the wood. That is an 
impression of sense ; that ' tongues ' of flame ' devour ' 
the wood is still a poetic figure. But reason begins to 
ask what fire really is, — to seek the cause, to exercise 
the judgment instead of the fancy. 

Henceforth reason and fancy are at strife ; poetry and 
science separate. This means, too, that poetry becomes 
conscious of itself. Conscious poetry cannot be spon- 
taneous, like the old national poetry. Hence, further, 
the poet becomes a distinct personage ; there is a 
"maker" as well as a singer. The word "maker/' 
which is exactly equivalent to the Greek word "poet," 
is used by our earlier writers : cf Dunbar's Lament for 



l8 POETICS. 

the Makaris. Now it is on the threshold of this new 
age that the great epics are written, — such as the 
Odyssey or the Iliad, and our own Beowulf. The 
singer is still lost in his song ; no personality peeps out 
of his work ; but it is his genius which binds together 
the scattered songs and hymns, and breathes into this 
mass the creative breath of a rich imagination. While 
the result is still national and spontaneous in origin, 
while the poet has simply given an artistic unity to his 
materials, we must not lose sight of this unifying pro- 
cess and its importance. The Odyssey, for example, 
with its consummate art of construction, is no mere 
collection of ballads jostled into unity. 

But in the next epoch, the period of the written epic, 
when the "maker" claims the material as well as the 
form to be his own work, there is a great change. It 
is not the epic ; it is epic poetry. Men ask, " Who 
wrote this ? " 

Thus, our Beowulf \% impersonal — a true epic. The 
epic poems of Cynewulf (Eighth Century), though like 
Beowulf in style, are very different in other respects. 
First, the poet weaves his own name (in Acrostics) into 
his verse, thus claiming ownership ; secondly, he uses a 
written account as the basis of his narrative. He reads 
(not "hears" as the older minstrel did) a story, and 
puts it into verse. But this implies another character- 
istic of the new age, — literature. Further, this literature 
is not only national ; — the spread of Latin and sacred 
lore makes it international. Poetry can now deliber- 
ately choose its subject ; it has different roads before 
it. The epic process still goes on, but new customs 
disturb it and break up the grand march into petty 
detachments. 



THE EPIC. 19 

§ 3 LATER FORMS OF EPIC POETRY. 

(1) Legends accepted as True. 

The tendency to sing about national heroes, and the 
battles which they fight, continues in force. Thus in 
the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, scattered songs flash out 
from the monotony of prose ; e.g., The Battle of Brnn- 
nanburh (937). Another such battle-ballad (not in the 
Chronicle) is Byrhtnotti s Fall (sometimes called The 
Battle of Maldon), a spirited song, composed, says 
Rieger, so soon after the fight that the poet is ignorant 
of the hostile leader's name. All the fire and the 
impetuosity of the old epic style live again in this 
* ballad ' (993). Under the Norman yoke, our fore- 
fathers still sung their favorite heroes ; though not pre- 
served to us, these songs were used by the later prose 
chroniclers of England. Then there were legendary 
characters of a less definite kind : cf. the Lay of Horn 
and of Havelok. In another similar story, Ten Brink 
sees a late form of the Beowulf myth. 

The most important of these legendary poems is the 
famous Brut of Layamon (about the beginning of the 
Thirteenth Century). It is simply the mythical history of 
Britain. In tone and manner the Brut approaches the 
old national epic ; it is partly based on tradition by word 
of mouth, though Wace's Geste des Bretons was Laya- 
mon's chief authority. Compared, however, with mod- 
ern ventures in the same field — say, with Tennyson's 
Idylls of the King — the Brut has much of the real epic 
flavor. From Layamon down, these national legends 
have been extensively drawn upon by our poets. A 



20 POETICS. 

catalogue of such poems belongs to the history of our 
literature. — The above concerns (a) National legends. 
We now glance at (b) Legends of the Cfairch. 

In the first place, many paraphrases were made of the 
Bible. The Old Testament was partly done into Eng- 
lish verse. Thus, that Ms. which Franciscus Junius 
took to be the work of Beda's hero, Caedmon, but which 
is really a collection of poems by several authors and 
from different times, contains, among other poetical 
versions of the books of the Bible, a splendid paraphrase 
of Exodus. Later, there were other versions of Genesis 
and Exodus. There is also preserved the conclusion of 
a noble Anglo-Saxon epic poem, — yttdith. Cynewulf 
turned for material to the numerous sacred legends: 
cf. his Elene, or the Finding of the Cross. Later poets 
treated the lives of the saints. Hovering between 
national and sacred legend are such cycles of poetry as 
that which treats the legend of the Holy Grail, — 
e.g., the story of "Joseph of Arimathie." These all 
have a strongly marked moral purpose, — something 
foreign to early epic. But in the way of pure narrative 
for the narrative's sake, nothing can be better than those 
of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales which treat sacred legend : 
e.g., the exquisite Prioresses Tale. 

We have, further, international literature as source for 
poetry, — Legends based on General LListory (c). Latin 
once made possible the ideal for which Goethe sighed, 
— a world-literature. In the mediaeval Latin there was 
already collected a rude history of the world. In dis- 
torted shape, the heroes of old time passed through the 
Latin into the various literatures of Europe, which all 
began with and in the Latin itself. Each great hero 



THE EPIC. 21 

formed a centre for certain ' cycles ' of stories and 
legends : prominent were the Alexander Legends, the 
^Eneas Legends; — later, the Legends of Charlemagne, 
though these are more national. A branch of the yEneas 
or Troy legend was that of Troilus, which afterwards 
busied the pens of Chaucer and Shakspere, and was 
immensely popular in the middle ages. A great aid to 
these legends was the mass of stories which had their 
origin in the East, — in India and elsewhere, — and came 
in the wake of the returning crusades, gradually drift- 
ing into every literature in Europe. Such is the famous 
story of the three caskets, brought in with so much effect 
in The Merchant of Venice. \_Cf the story itself in the 
E. E. T. Soc.'s ed. of the Gesta Romanorum.'] Stimu- 
lated by these stories, and fed by them in great meas- 
ure, arose a vast array of Romances, all of a historical 
coloring. Their name is derived from the Romance or 
corrupted and popular Latin, in which many of these 
tales appeared. Romances were greatly beloved in the 
middle ages, and made an important part of the first 
books printed by Caxton, — "joyous and pleasant his- 
tories of chivalry.'' Finally, they were killed by their 
folly and extravagance. Cf. Chaucer's Tale of Sir 
Thopas ; for the prose romances, Don Quixote was 
at once judge and executioner. — More serious work 
— not strictly romances — may be seen in Chaucer's 
Legende of Goode Women, and above all in the great 
Canterbury Tales. As writer of tales, as "narrative 
poet," Chaucer is without a peer in English Literature. 
His reticence, in that garrulous age, is sublime. He 
omits trifling details, not caring " who bloweth in a 
trump or in a horn." — We must here note a strange use 



22 POETICS. 

of the word "tragedy." It meant for Chaucer's time 
the story of those who had fallen from high to low 
estate. It had nothing dramatic : — 

" Tregedis is to sayn a certeyn storie, 
As olde bokes maken us memorie, 
Of hem that stood in greet prosperite 
And is y-fallen out of heigh degre 
Into miserie and endith wrecchedly." 

A "comedy" was a narrative that did not end tragic- 
ally: cf. Dante's great work. 

With far wider sweep of history, modern poets have 
greatly increased the variety of romances and legen- 
dary poems. Think of Evangeline or Hiazvatha on one 
hand, and on the other, of the Norse legends or the 
classic stories of William Morris. No classic themes 
have ever been revived with such power as in Mar- 
lowe's (and Chapman's) Hero and Leander, and in 
Keat's Hyperion. The field is practically boundless. 
There is great license of treatment. The poet can 
adhere closely to his original, or he can invent and 
change at will. Such cases may be cited as the roman- 
ces of Scott and Byron. 

Under this head belong the Riming Chronicle and the 
Narrative Didactic poem. The first is a history in rime. 
In the Thirteenth Century Robert of Gloucester wrote 
such a chronicle of England ; later (end of Fifteenth 
Century) we have Harding s Chronicle. As poetry they 
are of no value whatever. — The second class we may 
illustrate best by describing its best example. In 1559 
appeared a book called " A Myrroure for Magistrates, 
wherein may be seen by example of other, with how 



THE EPIC. 23 

grevous plages vices are punished, and howe frayle, 
unstable worldly prosperitie is founde, even of those 
whom fortune seemeth most highly to favour. Felix 
quern faciunt aliena per icula cautum, Londini, &c." This 
work, begun by Sackville on the model of Boccaccio's 
De casibus virorum illustrium, resembles in plan the 
"Tregedis," described above, which make up the Monk's 
Tale in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, except that in the 
former the characters are all English. 

(d) Lastly, we note the revival of the supernatural 
in modern tales. This sort assumes a belief on the 
part of its readers that the supernatural is possible. 
The greatest example is Coleridge's Christabel : cf. the 
same poet's Ancient Mariner, and Scott's less successful 
Lay of the Last Minstrel. 

(2) Allegory. 

Here we still have narrative, but it is no longer 
based <#t history, on actual events. Invention begins 
to play a leading part. A certain series of events is 
supposed to have taken place, and these events generally 
point out some moral, or else tell one story in terms of 
another. Allegory was the favorite form of the sacred 
Latin poetry of the early church. The last poets of 
profane Latin literature had a strong leaning toward 
allegory ; and it was taken up with ardor by the Chris- 
tians as particularly suited to their purposes. Prudcutius 
(born in Saragossa, 348 a.d.) was the first Christian 
poet who regularly used pure allegory, and he employed 
it first in his Psychomachia, which is therefore impor- 
tant as the herald of a long line of allegorical poems. 
Its example and its effect upon mediaeval literature can 



24 POETICS. 

hardly be overestimated. It belonged, says Ebert, to 
the " standard works," was recommended for study, and 
was copied by many of the church poets. This, as we 
must remember, is the first purely allegorical poem, but 
not the first use of allegory in poetry. The latter is a 
point of style. In profane poetry, allegory soon became 
very popular, notably among the French poets, whom 
Chaucer copied. It was used quite apart from any 
moral purposes, and is often the vehicle of pure amuse- 
ment. Such in part is the Romaunt of the Rose, — 
though there are many satirical touches in it, — a 
French poem of which we have a translation attributed 
to Chaucer. But we must regard first the 

(a) Didactic Allegory. 

The supreme allegory of the world is the Divina 
Commedia of Dante. It is at the same time a noble 
epic, of which, as has been said, Dante himself is the 
hero. Exactly what it is intended to teach is a JJfaestion 
on which commentators still differ. In general, however, 
we may call it an allegory partly of political events, but 
chiefly of Dante's own life and religious belief. The 
poem is of the greatest importance aside from its 
splendid composition ; it sums up the highest results 
of the middle ages and is filled with their loftiest and 
purest spirit. It is often imitated by Chaucer — as in 
his House of Fame. Further, the Scotch school of 
poets who followed Chaucer — Dunbar especially — 
showed great fondness for this sort of allegory, as well 
as for Visions. Visions belong with allegory, and were 
beloved by the middle ages. Gregory the Great, St. 
Boniface (Winfried), and many other famous writers, 

g 



THE EPIC. 25 

have left "Visions" among their works, — wonderful 
dreams, full of help or warning from the other world. 
Among the prettiest specimens of this sort of literature 
is a poem called The Pearl (North of England, about 
1370). A father has lost his dear and only daughter, 
but in a dream he sees her in heaven and is comforted. 
Probably by the same author is a poem founded on the 
Arthurian legend and called Sir Gawayne and the Green 
Knight. This teaches in allegorical wise the lesson 
that manhood must be purified by doubt, temptation, 
and sorrow successfully combated ; the poem may be 
compared with the great German poem' of Wolfram von 
Eschenbach, — the Parzival. The finest allegorical 
poem in our own literature is, of course, The Faery 
Queene. Other famous poems of the kind are, on one 
hand, the social allegory \ mourning the wrongs of certain 
classes in society : example, The Vision concerning Piers 
the Ploughman (Fourteenth Century) ; or, on the 
other, the political allegory, aiming at abuses in govern* 
ment or factious opposition : example, Dryden's Absa- 
lom and Achitophel, where English contemporary 
characters are introduced under the veil of a story from 
the Bible. Saul is Oliver Cromwell, David is King 
Charles II., Absalom is the Duke of Monmouth, &c. 
The same author wrote an allegory of religious faiths, — . 
The Hind and the Panther. Dramatic in form (cf. Chap. 
III. § 5) but full of a fine allegory is Milton's noble 
Comtis. 

(b) When the didactic allegory is bounded by very 
narrow limits, there results the Fable. The Fable is 
" the feigned history of a particular case, in which wc 
recognize a general truth." The events are mostly 



26 POETICS. 

taken from the life of beasts, birds, etc. One of the 
oldest English forms of this sort of allegory is a descrip- 
tion of some animal and his habits, with a moral inter- 
pretation. A collection of such stories was called a 
Bestiary or Physiologus. But ordinarily, by fable we 
understand a short, pithy incident in animal life, 
intended to convey a moral. Jacob Grimm, it is true, 
thought there had once existed a regular beast-epic, like 
the human epic of early days, and he referred the later 
fables to such a source. There was, however, no Ger- 
manic beast-epic at all. The stories came from the 
East, from Byzantium, brought by word of mouth into 
Italy, and thence into the different nations of Europe. 
The " morals " were added by the monks. Such collec- 
tions were very popular. Caxton printed in 148 1 a 
prose history of Reynard the Fox. Gay's Fables in Eng- 
lish — and Prior's also — are specimens of the light 
vein : in French, Marie de France among older writers, 
and the incomparable La Fontaine, are superior to the 
English, except that Chaucer's imitation of Marie de 
France {The Nonne Prestes Tale) far surpasses the orig- 
inal, and is one of the liveliest and most charming tales 
in our literature. 

{c) Miscellaneous. 

There are several kindred forms of allegory, such as 
Poetic Parable, which deals with human beings rather 
than with beasts. This sort of poetry came also from 
the East. In modern English we may cite a familiar 
example in Leigh Hunt's Abou ben Adhem. The 
Gnomic Dialogue is an old form of verse. Two persons 
tell in turn anecdotes intended to bring out some truth. 



THE EPJC. 27 

Such were the famous dialogues between the soul and the 
body, well known to our early literature : further, the 
dialogue between Solomon and Saturn (!) and others of 
the same type. This latter poem is related to the popu- 
lar Riddle Ballads, in which difficult questions are put 
and answered. (See Child, Eng. and Scot. Pop. Ball., 
Vol. 1, p. 13, 2d ed.) 

(3) Reflective Poetry. 

The desire to draw a moral from the story of events 
was, we saw, practically unknown to the primitive epic. 
The later forms, as they grew fond of allegory, allowed 
the moral element to get the upper hand. At last arose 
a kind of poetry that is all moral, and not in any way 
story, — just the opposite extreme from the old epic. 
What allows us to class such Reflective Poetry in this 
place, is the fact that the poet bases his moralizing upon 
experience of life. Now the middle ages had a bound- 
less affection for moralizing ; they would have taken 
the excellent Polonius and his maxims very seriously 
indeed. Acid a touch of melancholy, inherent in the 
Anglo-Saxon race, and we can readily understand how 
popular was the Poema Morale (about 11 70), a good 
example of the reflective poem. It is a sermon in verse ; 
perhaps with as much lyric tone as epic, but still well 
freighted with good advice in addition to the pathos. 
Much longer, epic in breadth, style, and plan, is Words- 
worth's Excursion ; shorter, his Lines written above Tin- 
tern Abbey. Another example is Cowper's Task. More 
directly appealing to the intellect is Pope's Essay on 
Criticism ; to the reason, the same author's Essay on 
Man. With this kind of reflective and philosophical 



28 POETICS. 

Verse we touch the borders of poetry itself. Poetry 
purely didactic is not poetry ; for poetry must, to a cer- 
tain extent, exist for its own sake, as a work of art. 
There is brilliant verse in Pope's Essays above-men- 
tioned ; but when we come to the lower forms of so- 
called didactic poetry, we must deny the substantive. 
Thus rimed histories, catechisms, mnemonic verses, 
instructive literature generally, are not poetry. Cf 
Furnivall's ed. of the Book of Nurture (E. E. T. Soc. 
1868) ; Tusser's Five Hundred Points of Good Hus- 
bandry ; Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, and a 
host of the same kind : all of these could be much more 
simply and effectively written in prose. In fact, such 
verse is a survival from the days before prose was 
established, when poetry was maid-of-all-work to priest- 
hood and the law. Yet we cannot say that all so-called 
didactic poetry is not poetry ; even if we give up Vergil's 
Georgics, we have the great poem of Lucretius. In the 
latter case, a system of philosophy is taught in verse ; 
but there is a vast remove from Armstrong's prattle 
about "The choice of aliment, the choice of air " to the 
"glittering shafts" of Lucretius' cosmic forces. We 
may say that the De Rerum Natura is poetical in spite 
of its subject. 

(4) Descriptive Poetry. 

This may be called a Nature-epic. It carries us not 
from one event to another, but from one object to an- 
other. It is generally combined with reflective poetry : 
cf. Goldsmith's Traveller and. Deserted Village, or Thom- 
son's Seasons. There is much descriptive verse in the 
Excursion, the Task, and like poems ; also in the epic 



THE EPIC. 29 

itself. A fine bit of description is the conclusion of 
M. Arnold's Sohrab and Rustum. In shorter compass, 
it appears in the famous epic Similes (cf. p. 109), and is 
familiar to lyric and dramatic verse. The one condition 
of descriptive poetry is that it shall have distinctively 
human connections and human interest ; else it becomes 
a catalogue. As a setting for the gem of human inter- 
est, it is omnipresent in poetry : the ballads open 
with a brief descriptive touch of the merry greenwood ; 
the lyric has its moonlight and rustling leaves ; the 
drama is set in actual scenery. It is this human inter- 
est combined with vivid description that gives success 
to Wordsworth's best work ; it is the lack of human 
interest that condemns from the start the effort of the 
verse-maker, who says (according to Carlyle), " Come, 
let us make a description ! " 

It is worth noting that the gorgeous pomp of descrip- 
tion so common in the Elizabethan drama, and to mod- 
ern taste often so superfluous, is due to the miserable 
scenery of the early stage. To beguile the imagination 
away from a bare space with a pasteboard tree and a 
label "Forest of Arden," the playwright had recourse 
to elaborate and highly colored description. Famous 
for this characteristic is the description of Dover Cliff 
in Lear. 

(5) Pastoral Poetry. 

An odd mixture of narrative and descriptive, with a 
dramatic element added, is the so-called Pastoral Poetry. 
It was once believed that poetry originated among shep- 
herds ; and in a corrupt or artificial age there is a reac- 
tion towards this primitive verse. Dwellers in crowded 
cities imagine themselves " silly " shepherds piping by 



1 



3<D POETICS. 

the brookside among their sheep. But simplicity is, as a 
rule, the very last quality of this kind of poetry. Under 
such circumstances it is almost impossible to write natu- 
rally ; there is too wide a gap between the singer and 
his song. The incongruity becomes evident when mod- 
ern and ancient expressions are brought together, as in 
Pope's lines : — 

" Inspire me, Phoebus, in my Delia's praise, 
With Waller's strains or Granville's moving lays ; 
A milk-white bull shall at your altars stand 
That threats a fight and spurns the rising sand." 

But there is some very successful pastoral poetry ; 
such is that of Theocritus and Vergil for the Greek and 
Latin, and of Spenser and William Browne for the 
English. This kind of poetry also had its origin in 
worship of the gods, and began in Greece with the wor- 
ship of Pan and the Dorian Artemis. The Spanish 
pastoral poem Diana, by George de Monte Mayor, had 
considerable influence on Sidney in his Arcadia. Our 
earliest pastoral is the Robyne and Makyne of Robert 
Henrysoun, a Scotch poet of the Fifteenth Century. 

Not so limited in range, though of the same character 
as the pastoral, is the Idyll. The Idyll must be simple, 
calm, more concerned with situation than with action. 
As a good example of this sort of poetry we should not 
instance the obvious Idylls of the King by Tennyson, 
which are more full of action than the title warrants, 
and belong to the legendary epic ; but we should in- 
stance The Cotter s Saturday Night of Burns as an 
excellent short idyll. In German, Hermann and Doro- 
thea (Goethe) is called an idyll; the quietness and sim- 
plicity of the poem, its exquisite grace, are more 



THE EPIC. 31 

prominent than the action, which is very simple. It 
was the only one of his poems, Goethe told Eckermann, 
which pleased the author in his old age. — For the 
dramatic Idyll, see Chap. III. §11. 

(6) Satiric and Amusing Poetry. 

The Latin word Satura (lanx satura, a plate heaped 
with various viands) meant a hodge-podge, or mixture 
of all things. A song was sung, made up of shifting 
subjects and metres, — a medley. At last it came to be 
a song ridiculing persons or events, and gradually gained 
dignity, till it ceased to mock its object, and began to 
reprove. The Romans were the greatest masters of this 
style of poetry, and Juvenal was its chief poet. Such 
satiric poetry as his, different from the milder satire of 
Horace, lashes public and private folly with a whip of 
indignant scorn. It does not aim to amuse ; it is 
really didactic. *Epic poetry was, we saw, objective; 
it mirrored the world, good or bad, without moral com- 
ment. Satiric poetry, on the other hand, judges events, 
and above all loves to belittle their importance, to show 
the reverse side of things. The epic loved to magnify 
its hero, to make him the special care of the gods ; the 
satire delights to show him subject to petty ills and 
conquered by some ignominious fate. Thus Juvenal 
cries to Hannibal, " Go now, thou madman, scour the 
rugged Alps — that thou mayest please children (hear- 
ing his story) and be a good subject for compositions ! " 
In order to make the satire keener, although the mixed 
and shifting treatment is retained, the poet adopts the 
form and manner of the epic : in Latin, the hexameter ; 
in English, the heroic couplet. In the latter language 



32 POETICS. 

we have vigorous satire from Marston, Donne, Bishop 
Hall, and many others. Butler's Hudibras is another 
kind of satire, in mock epic style. Dr. Johnson's two 
imitations of Juvenal are well known. — Dryden's Mac 
Flecknoe is a strong personal satire. There is much 
light and incidental satire in Chaucer ; and in the old 
English poem, called The Owl and the Nightingale 
(middle of the Thirteenth Century) the satire is softened 
to a delightful humor. This poem is in dialogue form, 
and may be compared with The Twa Dogs of Burns. 

Amusing Epic Poetry. 

Parody. — Here we look through a reversed spy-glass. 
The grand epic style is applied to petty subjects, . and 
exact epic order and grouping are retained. One of the 
best mock-epics or parodies ever written is Pope's Rape 
of the Lock. Note especially the machinery of the 
sylphs, their punishment for neglect of duty (cf the 
punishments in the Odyssey, — of Tantalus, Sisyphus, 
etc.) ; and the game of cards, described as the epic de- 
scribes a battle. 

A Travesty, on the other hand, is a noble subject 
treated in a ridiculous, ignoble way, — the opposite of the 
parody. Such are the Comic Histories. — But there is 
another sort of mock-poem which goes under, the name 
parody, though really a travesty. It consists in copying 
a serious poem with comic effect, using, however, as far 
as may be, the same words, phrases, metre, and general 
plan. The best of this class is M. Prior's English Ballad 
on the Taking of Namur by the King of Great Britain, 
in which he parodies admirably Boileau's pompous ode, 
Sur le Prise de Namur par les Armes du Roi, L } Annee 



i 



THE EPIC. 33 

1692. Prior wrote on its recapture by the English in 
1695. 

Humorous Epic. Not a parody or even a satire, but 
an easy poem, dealing with light events so as to form a 
connected story, and presenting generally some " phil- 
osophy of life," is the Humorous Epic. Byron's Don 
Juan is an example. With a far more serious undercur- 
rent, but still outwardly humorous, is Clough's delight- 
ful Bothie of Tober na Vuolich. Byron and Clough had 
very different points of view, but the manner of the 
poems is in some respects the same. - 

Thence we descend to merry tales in rime, light 
poems written purely for entertainment. Such in 
France were La Fontaine's Contes et Nouvelles, many of 
which were based on Boccaccio's (prose) Decameron ; 

igland has Chaucer's lighter tales ; and we may add 
later literature (amid a host of ' comic ' or ' humor- 
ous ' poems) Burns' Tarn Shanter. 

Lastly, the Riddle. The Riddle is a short epic with 
the hero's name suppressed. Often the form of the 
poetry has great merit ; e.g., for older English, Cyne- 
wu/f's Riddles ; for later, Praed's so-called Charades. 

(7) The Grand Epic of Modern Times. 

By " modern " is meant the period since poetical com- 
position has taken the place of poetical growth, — since 
the epoch of the Odyssey or of Beowitlf. The time is 
relative, and differs with different races. The splendid 
possibilities of the pure epic have not been disregarded 
by great poets, and in many lands there has arisen a 
later or imitated epic modelled on the early national 
epic. Vergil's ^Encid is a not unworthy successor 



34 POETICS. 

(inferior in many respects, it is true, and necessarily 
lacking the freshness and spontaneity of the original) of 
the Iliad. Ariosto and Tasso applied the manner and 
form of the grand epic to medieval subjects. For 
English, Paradise Lost, with its intense energy and 
lofty tone, ranks among the few great epic poems of the 
world. A bold venture on classic ground was the unfin- 
ished Hyperion of Keats, — an epic not far behind 
Milton's in that "high seriousness" which has been 
advanced of late as prime quality in a great poem. 
Further, there are countless English translations of the 
great epics, Pope's and Chapman's Homers being the 
most conspicuous. One great test of the old epic was 
its absolute belief in itself; there was no feigning. 
This sincerity is impossible in imitated epic ; and what 
makes Dante's great poem almost worthy to rank with 
the old epic, is the intense belief of Dante in his own 
work. It so catches the spirit of the middle ages, is so 
intense in its sincerity, that in this respect it may well 
be called Homeric. 

§ 4. THE BALLAD OR FOLK-SONG. 

We see that from the original epic sprang many kinds 
of poetry that all had the common trait of telling some- 
thing known, or supposed, or feigned to have happened. 
Other characteristics were simplicity, absence of per- 
sonal property (authorship), truthful mirroring of nature, 
lack of a moral or reflective element. These qualities 
vanished in later epic poetry. But as in the natural 
world, when we have ploughed under some old wheat- 
field and planted a new crop of other grain, there will 
be crevices and corners where odd patches of wheat will 



THE EPIC. 35 

spring up and flourish by the. side of the regular crop, 
so it is in the world of literature. The old wheat-field 
of epic poetry, long after it was ploughed under, kept 
sending up scattered blades, which we call ballads or 
folk-songs. Except in authority, national importance, 
and kindred qualities, we may use the same definition 
for the (narrative) folk-song that we use for the early 
epic. Both names, ballad and folk-song, are suggestive : 
ballad means a song to which one may dance ; folk-song 
is something made by the whole people, not by indi- 
vidual poets. Wright, in speaking of certain songs of 
the Fifteenth Century (Percy Soc, vol. xxiii.), says : 
"The great variation in the different copies of the same 
song shews that they were taken down from oral recita- 
tion, and had been often preserved by memory among 
minstrels who were not unskilful at composing, and who 
were ... in the habit ... of making up new songs 
by stringing together phrases and lines, and even whole 
stanzas, from the different compositions that were im- 
printed on their memories. ,, The importance and 
influence and, we may add, the worth, of the folk-song 
are in inverse ratio to the spread of printed books. As 
the minstrel's welcome vanished from the baron's hall, 
and his audience degenerated to peasants and serving- 
people, we note a corresponding degeneration from the 
highest poetical merit to the level of modern street- 
songs. 1 It easily follows that much of the best folk- 
poetry must be lost, — not because, like the heroes 
before Agamemnon, it lacked the pious poet to sing it, 
but rather the ' chid' to take notes and 'print it.' 

1 . . . "the usual marks of degeneracy [of ballads], a dropping or ob- 
scuring of marvellous and romantic incidents, and a declension in the rank 
and style of the characters." Child, Ballads, 2d Ed., vol. I., p. 48. 



36 POETICS. 

The folk-song is a complete satisfaction of the 
demand for " more matter and less art." It is very art- 
less and full of matter. The passions jostle each other 
terribly, as they escape from the singers lips : — 

" I hacked him in pieces sma', 
For her sake that died for me." 

The historical or narrative ballad is what we now con- 
sider. Like the early epic, it refers often to subjects 
made up partly of legend and partly of myth, — such as 
the Robin Hood ballads. But unlike the epic, the folk- 
song is often made immediately after a great battle or 
similar event. In the Battle of Maldon, or ByrhtnotJi s 
Death, a stirring ballad of the later Anglo-Saxon period, 
the song follows the event so closely that the singer 
has not had time even to find out the name of the 
enemy's leaders. It is full of epic phrases and figures, 
and is thoroughly in the objective manner. The event 
seems to sing itself. 

Professor Child has grouped our national ballads as 
follows : I. Romances of Chivalry and legends of the 
popular history of England. II. Ballads involving vari- 
ous superstitions ; as of Fairies, Elves, Magic, and 
Ghosts. III. Tragic love-ballads. IV. Other tragic 
ballads. V. Love-ballads not tragic. In all these, and 
in the miscellaneous ballads, the tests we mentioned 
above will hold good for the genuine folk-song. It 
must be objective, filled with its story, adding no senti- 
ment or moral, and breathing a healthy, popular spirit. 
Antique spelling and archaic phrases do not make a 
ballad. Many ballads, too, are not of native origin, but, 
blown from the East over Europe, dropped seed in 



THE EPIC. 37 

many countries. Hence a number of similar ballads 
(cf the extraordinary spread of a ballad known in Eng- 
lish as Lady Isabel and the Elf-Knight) in the different 
literatures of Europe. Again, like fairy and nursery 
tales, like superstitions and folk-lore of every sort, many 
strikingly similar European ballads point to a common 
mythical source. But amid the diversity of subject and 
origin, the general spirit of the ballad or folk-song 
remains one and the same. The genuine ballad is one 
thing, and the imitated ballad — even such an imita- 
tion as Chatterton could make — is quite another. To 
understand this clearly, read a good specimen of each 
kind ; compare, say, Thomas of Ercildoune with Keats' 
La Belle Dame Sans Merely a Ballad. The latter is 
wrought by the fancy of ~a poet under certain influ- 
ences of the past ; the other, written in the Fifteenth 
Century, but older in composition than that, is the work 
of a single poet or minstrel only in the sense that this 
minstrel combined materials which had been handed 
down from remotest times. The study of these mate- 
rials leads in all directions, — to the prophecies of Mer- 
lin, the story of the Tannhauser, and so forth ; the 
floating waifs of myth and superstition had gathered 
about the legendary (or historical) form of Thomas the 
Rhymer, and under one minstrel's hands take this 
definite shape as ballad. It is the old epic process in 
miniature. Even in the style we may distinguish the 
two. " I am glad as grasse wold be of raine " is the bal- 
lad style {Marriage of Sir Gawayne) ; " With kisses 
glad as birds are that get sweet rain at noon " is the 
imitated ballad style (Swinburne, A Match). 

The ballad, with the spread of letters, degenerates 



38 POETICS. 

into the street-song or broadside. It bewails abuses in 
government, the wrongs of the poor, satirizes the follies 
of the day, and the like. For a collection of such, see 
(among others) the Roxburghe Ballads. 

§ 5. LATER BALLADS. 

As with the epic, so with the folk-song ; poets soon 
saw how much could be done with the form and manner 
of the ballad. Prudentius wrote a sort of ballad on the 
death of the martyr Laurentius ; it was in the metre of 
the Latin folk-song, and is called by Ebert the first exam- 
ple of a modern ballad. He compares the style, and even 
the metre, to the English popular ballads of later time. 
Of course, Prudentius purposely adopts this ballad style : 
"Hear," he cries to the martyr, "a rustic poet." The 
nearer such conscious ballads approach the tone of gen- 
uine folk-song, the better they are. The old Anglo- 
Saxon ballad, e.g., Byrhtnotti s Death, may be compared 
with Drayton's stirring Battle of Agincourt. The list 
of these imitated or conscious ballads, works of individ- 
ual poets, would be endless. Any great occasion or 
situation can inspire such songs. Of martial ballads, 
we instance Campbell's Battle of the Baltic ; of love- 
ballads (narrative, of course), Maud Muller or Lord 
Ulliris Daughter ; gay ballads, like Burns' Dimcan Grey 
or John Barleycorn ; longer historical ballads, like 
Macaulay's Lays of Ancient Rome, in which there is 
more tinsel than true metal ; the " dramatic," spirited 
ballad, such as Robert Browning delights in ; and a 
host of others. Often a story is told in a story ; e.g., 
Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. Comic ballads are of two 



THE EPIC. 39 

kinds. In one, the fun springs from the situation or 
event ; e.g., John Gilpin 's famous ride. In the other, 
the mind must work out the humor of the poem ; there 
is nothing laughable in the event itself. Of this kind 
is Goldsmith's Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. To 
classify the great number of occasional ballads would 
be useless. They cover every conceivable situation. 
But we must note the gradual shading away of narra- 
tive ballads into ballads that are either lyric or dra- 
matic. The tragic ballad is in its purity objective, — 
as The Children in the Wood, or Sir Patrick Spens : when 
it begins to let emotion outweigh narrative, then we 
have a lyric ballad. When the persons of the story 
speak for themselves, we have a dramatic ballad. Nat- 
urally, the lyric and epic are often closely blended. 
Thus a deep emotion — as of grief — finds expression 
by dwelling on certain events. The Burial of Sir John 
Moore is strongly objective ; mingled with outbursts of 
feeling is the narrative in David's beautiful lament over 
Jonathan (2 Sam. 1. 1 7 ff.). This is closely allied to the 
lyric Threnody ; but there is a tendency to dwell on 
events. There is much narrative in Milton's Lycidas, 
and at first we might call it chiefly epic in its lament ; 
— what with the pastoral allegory, and the appeal to 
the nymphs, one is almost ready to add " artificial": 
but a deeper study shows us that the whole poem is a 
splendid burst of grief and indignation, — Milton's first 
strong cry against the evil of the times, against a degen- 
erate priesthood. King's death is only the occasion for 
uttering those feelings. Lycidas is in every sense of 
the word a lyric. 



40 POETICS. 



CHAPTER II. — LYRIC POETRY. 

The epic belongs to the outward world. Its business 
is to tell a story. It sings the wrath of Achilles, or 
the wanderings of Odysseus, or the feats of Beowulf ; 
it reports simply what has happened. Quite the con- 
trary with the lyric : it is subjective, proceeds from one 
individual ; has to do, not with events, but with feel- 
ings. It belongs to a later stage of culture than the 
epic. "The lyric poets/' says Paul Albert, 1 "are the 
interpreters of the new society. The field that is 
opened to them is vast, boundless, as the needs, desires, 
and energies of the people." Children, and the early 
world, content themselves with things about them, — 
events, objects of nature. Growing man becomes con- 
scious of a world within him, of desires, hopes, fears. 
To express these is the business of lyric poetry. Con- 
sequently the test of a good lyric poem is sincerity. To 
show how important this is, read an artificial lyric like 
Rogers' Wish ("Mine be a cot beside the hill"), and 
compare it with the exquisite Happy Heart of Dekker. 
[Both lyrics are in Palgrave's Golden Treasury^ We 
ask, therefore, of the lyric that it be a real expression, 
an adequate, harmonious, and imaginative expression, of 
real feeling. 

Hegel gives a good illustration of this subjective 
nature of the lyric as compared with the epic objectivity. 
Homer, he says, is so shut out, as individual, from his 

1 La Poesie, Paris, 1870. He is speaking especially of Greece, from 
760-400 B.C. 



LYRIC POETRY. 41 

great epics, that his very existence is questioned ; 
though his heroes are safely immortal. The heroes of 
Pindar, on the other hand, are empty names ; while he 
who sang them is the immortal poet. Lyric poetry 
tends to exalt the poet himself, to make his personality 
far more to us than the events which occasion his poem. 
Whether it be Horace or Robin Herrick who is singing, 
it is the poet who interests us, not the Maecenas or 
Corinna to whom he sings, nor yet the villa or the May- 
day which he takes as subject. 

Again, the epic moves slowly, majestically ; it is a 
broad and quiet current. The lyric is concentrated. It 
is like a well-spring bursting out suddenly at one's feet. 

So, too, epic and lyric differ inform. The epic has a 
traditional, uniform metre, such as the hexameter or the 
heroic couplet or blank verse. The lyric has its choice 
of a hundred forms, or may go further, and invent a new 
form. The epic was chanted ; the lyric was sung. The 
old minstrel had his harp ; the German Minnesanger 
accompanied their songs on the violin (not the harp, as 
often stated). This suggests the origin of the word 
lyric, — something sung to the lyre. Thus we have 
three elements : instrument, voice, words. In time a 
separation was brought about, so that now (i) the music 
is everything, and the words either altogether discarded 
(compare the Lieder ohne Worte) or else very subordinate 
and often foolish, as in opera ; or (2) the words are the 
chief consideration and the music a possibility. When 
to a lyric of the second class (such as Goethe's charm- 
ing songs), the music of a great master is added, we 
have revived the original conception of a lyric. 

The Abbe Batteux says that enthusiasm is the basis 



42 POETICS. 

of lyric poetry, and he gives three divisions : the sub- 
lime, the szveet, and what lies between the two. But 
this is nothing more than what was said above, — the 
lyric comes from and appeals to the feelings. It stirs 
our emotions and purifies them, — a process to which 
in the case of the drama Aristotle applied the term 
Katharsis, a purifying or purging. Lyric poetry must 
therefore be divided according to the nature of the feel- 
ings aroused. But these same emotions may be (a) 
simple, and the poem may so become a natural expres- 
sion of immediate feeling ; or they may be (b) enthusi- 
astic, whence arises the dithyramb or ode ; or lastly, 
they may be (c) reflective, where the intellectual min- 
gles with the purely emotional. 

Many writers have proposed new classifications of 
lyric poetry ; thus Carriere divides into lyrics oi feeling, 
of contemplation (or the symbolic, i.e., the poet traces 
his own sensations as manifested in the external world), 
and of reflection. Vischer has still another division ; 
but the one given above seems the simplest, and needs 
no great array of philosophic terms to explain it. 

§ I. SACRED LYRIC. 

The lyric here voices religious emotion. When this 
occurs (a) simply, when the feelings pour out unrestrain- 
edly, we have such a hymn as Wesley's beautiful Jesus, 
Lover of my Soul. The world-old hymns on which 
mythology and religion were based were more epic than 
lyric. Otherwise with the purely emotional character 
of the Psalms of David : cf XLIL, As the hart panteth 
after the water-brooks. To these, as to Wesley's hymn, 
maybe applied a phrase which De Quincey quotes from 



LYRIC POETRY. 43 

the Greek, " Flight of the solitary to the Solitary!' The 
spirit of Christianity is an individual spirit ; it appeals 
to the single human soul. Hence many beautiful 
hymns of the church. 

(b) The second class of lyrics, the Ode, is where 
" any strain of enthusiastic and exalted lyrical verse 
[is] directed to a fixed purpose, and [deals] progres- 
sively with one dignified theme." (E. W. Gosse.) — 
For purely sacred lyric, an instance of this kind would 
be the Ode, " God," by Derzhavin, the Russian ; 
translated by Bowring. With slight epic leaning is 
Pope's Messiah. 

(e) The reflective sacred lyric is well represented in 
the poems of George Herbert, where, however, the 
passion for ' conceits ' often clogs the lyric flight. 
Whittier's Eternal Goodness may be mentioned among 
modern poems of this class. 

§ 2. PATRIOTIC LYRIC. 

National hymns flourish in every country, and the 
feeling of love for one's native land has found frequent 
and various expression in the lyric. "Scots wJia hae wV 
Wallace bled" (Burns); The Isles of Greece (Byron); 
The Marseillaise; the exquisite little " Ode," How 
Sleep the Brave (Collins) ; Give a Rouse (R. Browning, 
1 Cavalier Tunes ') ; Ye Mariners of England (Camp- 
bell) — are all examples of this sort. Then there is the 
fine Ode by Sir W. Jones, What Constitutes a State ? 
the sonnet To Milton by Wordsworth ; Coleridge's Ode 
to France ; and the masterpiece of lofty reflection joined 
with intense feeling flashing out in the " higher mood " 
of Lycidrs. In patriotic lyrics are, of course, included 



44 



POETICS. 



lyrics of war. Several have been mentioned. Poems 
like The Destruction of Sennacherib (Byron) and The 
Charge of the Light Brigade (Tennyson), though narra- 
tive in form, are really lyric ; the feeling is the main 
thing, not the story. They are subjective, not objec- 
tive. 

Lastly, we must not forget that in the best dramatic 
poetry there are bursts of feeling so strong as to make 
them lyrical, despite the chains of blank-verse and the 
dependence on the rest of the play. Such a patriotic 
outburst is the part about England in the dying speech 
of old John of Gaunt (Rich. II, n. i), or the famous 
exhortation of King Harry (Hen. V., in. i). 

§ 3. LOVE-LYRICS. 

These are the lyrics par excellence. Our literature is 
wonderfully rich in this respect. We think of such a 
simple love-lyric as Take, take those lips away (in 
Measure for Measure), or O my loves like a red, red rose, 
or Whistle and Til come to you, my lad (Burns) ; of 
such an ode as Spenser's Epithalamion ; of such a fine 
i reflective ' love-lyric as She was a phantom of delight 
(Wordsworth), and, though we have combined most 
widely sundered points of view, we have by no means 
exhausted the "many moodes and pangs of lovers . . . 
the poure fools sometimes praying, beseeching, some- 
time honouring, auancing, praising : an other while 
railing, reviling, and cursing ; then sorrowing, weeping, 
lamenting: in the ende laughing, rejoysing and solac- 
ing the beloued againe, with a thousand delicate de- 
uises, odes, songs, elegies, ballads, sonets and other 
ditties, moouing one way and another to great compas- 






LYRIC POETRY. 45 

sion." (Geo. Puttenham, Arte of Eng. Poesie, ch. 22.) 
Or we may sum up the two prevailing moods — hope 
and despair — of love-songs, in Chaucer's line : — 

" Now up, now doun, as bokets in a welle." 

The troubadours (or trouveres, i.e., finders, inventors 
of poetry) flourished in France, and the Minnesanger 
(Minne = love) in Germany, some six centuries ago, and 
made a golden age of love-lyrics. To compose a love- 
song, and then sing it effectively, was every noble's ac- 
complishment. Richard the Lion-heart is credited with 
a French love-lay. Then, too, the gay " clerkes," the 
wandering scholars of the middle ages, sang love-songs 
enough, from the reckless tavern-catch (such as may 
be found in modern collections of the medieval Latin 
songs) up to the passionate outburst of love to the holy 
and gracious Virgin of heaven. [See Kennedy's trans- 
lation of Ten Brink's Hist. Eng. Lit., p. 208.] Another 
great cycle of love-lyrics is found in the time of Eliza- 
beth ; e.g., Marlowe's " smooth song," Come live with 
me and be my love. Popular collections were printed ; 
e.g., " England's Helicon," Tottel's " Miscellany," &c. — 
The Madrigal was originally a shepherd's song, but came 
to mean a love-ditty; "airs and madrigals," says Mil- 
ton, " which whisper softness in chambers." It must 
be short and fanciful ; e.g., Take, O take those lips away 
(see above), or Tell me where is fancy bred {Merck, of 
Ven.). Reckless or amusing love-lyrics are plentiful : 
Suckling's Why so pale and wan, fond lover? and With- 
er' s Shall I, wasting in despair are good examples. An 
admirable love-lyric, swaying between jest and earnest, 
is Drayton's sonnet, Since therms no help, conic let us 



46 POETICS. 

kiss and part ; the sudden turn of the last two lines is 
of the highest merit. Grave entirely, and gracious, is 
Lovelace's Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde. With 
Herrick, Carew and the rest, we come to Vers de 
Society which will be treated below. It is folly to at- 
tempt any minute classification of love-lyrics : each 
good one should make a class for itself. We must, 
however, note the wonderful revival of the Elizabethan 
lyric by William Blake ; e.g., in his song My Silks and 
Fine Array. The ti'agic side of love represented in this 
song is more appropriately treated under lyrics of grief, 
though we may here mention the exquisite ballad Fair 
Helen, Wordsworth's Lucy (that beginning She dwelt 
among the tmtrodden ways, and also A slumber did my 
spirit seal) ; while there is what Mr. Arnold calls a 
" piercing " pathos in the stanza of Auld Lang Syne : — 

" We twa hae paidPd i' the burn 
From morning sun till dine ; 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd 
Sin 1 auld lang syne." 

§ 4. LYRIC OF NATURE. 

The good poet ought to feel with Chaucer : — 

" When that the monethe of May 
Is comen, and I here the foules synge, 
And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge, 
Fairewel my boke, and my devocioun ! '' 

Out of very early times comes down to us a fresh lit- 
tle " Cuckoo-Song/' a refrain to welcome Summer ; it 
is an excellent example of the simple nature-lyric : — 



LYRIC POETRY. 47 

" Sumer is i-cumen 1 in, 
Lhude 2 sing cuccu ! 
Groweth sed 
And bloweth med, 3 
And springth the wde 4 nu 5 ; 
Sing cuccu." 

Simple, too, is the song in Cymbeline, "Hark, hark, 
the lark" and the song in R. Browning's Pippa Passes, 
" The Years at the Spring" A little reflection (nature 
is ever suggestive) is mingled with Shelley's Cloud, 
Blake's Tiger, Wordsworth's Cuckoo and Daffodils, 
Keats' Autumn, Beaumont and Fletcher's Now the 
lusty Spring is seen and Shepherds all and maidens fair, 
and Swinburne's fine chorus When the hotcnds of spring, 
in " Atalanta in Calydon." 

Of the odes, we instance Collins' beautiful Ode to 
Evening; and Wordsworth's Ode on Intimations of 
Immortality, etc., is also in great part a praise of 
nature. 

With reflective lyrics of nature we come upon a 
boundless field. Man's life and the life of nature are 
so mutually suggestive, we so perpetually express one 
in terms of the other, — the oak dies, hope fades, and so 
on, — that there can be no end to the variety of emo- 
tions called forth. Burns ploughs up the daisy, and 
the analogy with his own fate bursts out in song. Even 
light-hearted Herrick reminds Corinna {Corinnd s Going 
a Maying) that life ebbs fast, and nature must be en- 
joyed while May is with us. When the feelings come 
still further under the influence of the intellect, when 
we allow analogies to be suggested which lead us hither 
and thither, there results the reflective lyric of the 

1 come. 2 loud. 3 meadow. 4 wood. 5 now. 



48 POETICS. 

graver cast. The lyric tends to be less spontaneous ; 
but it gains in breadth and often in beauty. Take the 
process in little. Wordsworth says : — 

" My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky : 
So was it when my life began : 
So is it now I am a man ; 
So be it when I shall grow old, 

Or let me die ! 
The child is father of the man ; 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety." 

Here we note (i) a pure emotion, a simple, unmixed 
influence of nature ; then (2) memory, and a wish born 
of reflection ; finally (3) an intellectual conclusion, a 
result of that reflection. This process, extended or 
brief, makes a reflective nature-lyric. Shelley's Sky- 
lark and Ode to the West Wind, Andrew Marvell's Gar- 
den, and especially Milton's L Allegro and II Penseroso, 
may be read with profit as excellent examples of this 
class. Mr. Pattison has shown, as regards Milton's two 
poems, that they are not " descriptive" ; — that descrip- 
tive poetry (as Lessing proved in his Laocoon) is "a 
contradiction in terms. . . . Human action or passion is 
the only subject of poetry." The charm of nature-poe- 
try is not its description, its rivalry with a painting of 
the scene ; it is the suggestive power of objects to stimu- 
late the imagination, — in Marvell's fine words, often 

" Annihilating all that's made 
To a green thought in a green shade." 

The perfection of this sort of poetry is perhaps 
reached in Keats' two odes To a Nightingale and On a 
Grecian Urn. 



LYRIC POETRY. 49 

Finally, nature may serve as mere mirror for intense 
feeling. Such a poem is Tennyson's Break, break, break. 

§ 5. LYRIC OF GRIEF. 

There is pure grief expressed in the last poem cited 
above ; and indeed, classification of lyrics is often arbi- 
trary and uncertain, for a poet does not confine himself 
in one poem to one feeling. But death is the prime 
mover of grief, and we consider here the lyric that 
deals with death. Such a lyric should be the result of 
immediate feeling. Malherbe, the French poet, took 
three years to compose an ode to a friend who had lost 
his wife. When the ode was ready, the friend was 
again married. 

The old-time lament was epic ; it sang the deeds of 
the dead. So the end of Beowulf tells us how twelve 
warriors rode around the hero's tomb and sang his 
praise. Nowadays the lament is lyric. Examples are : 
Dirge in Cymbeline ; Shelley's Adonais (in memory of 
Keats) ; Tennyson's /;/ Memoriam (Hallam). These 
will fairly represent the simple (also expressed in Word- 
worth's Lttcy and in Poe's Annabel Lee), the impas- 
sioned, and the philosophic or reflective. But In 
Memoriam has three distinct moods : (i) epic, memo- 
ries of old friendship ; (2) lyric, bursts of pure grief ; 
(3) reflective, philosophic — as in the canto 117, Con- 
template all this work of time. See, further, Milton's 
Lycidas and Arnold's Thyrsis. A calamity involving 
many deaths is bewailed in Cowper's Loss of the Royal 
George. 

The words elegy and elegiac must be used with cau- 
tion. The classical lament was written in alternate 



fjO POETICS. 

hexameter and pentameter ; this was called elegiac 
verse. It came to be used for any reflective poetry ; 
hence " elegiac " refers more to the metre than to the 
subject. In English we understand it generally to 
mean solemn or plaintive poetry ; but the Roman Ele- 
gies, for example, of Goethe are anything rather than 
solemn or plaintive. Still, in general terms, an elegy 
is a song of grief, whether acute or mild. It can also 
look forward to death, as well as back. Thus Nash has 
some beautiful lines on Approaching Death (in Sum- 
mer s Last Will and Testament) : — 

4 ' Brightness falls from the air : — 
Queens have died young and fair ; 
Dust hath closed Helen's eye ; 
I am sick, I must die, — 
Lord, have mercy on us ! " 

Less immediate is Shirley's Dirge ("The glories of 
our blood and state"), or Beaumont's lines On the Tombs 
in Westminster Abbey. 

On the contrary, personal and full of terrible suffer- 
ing are those saddest verses of Cowper, The Castaway. 
Like Beaumont's lines in beauty, and more read than 
any other poem in our language, is Gray's famous 
Elegy. There is no passion ; it is simply the language 
of the heart that comes face to face with the wide and 
impersonal idea of death. There is no individual grief, 
nor is there appeal to tumultuous sorrow, as in Hood's 
Bridge of Sighs. 

Again, the living can cause grief ; there can be a 
living death. So Whittier in Ichabod laments the fall 
of Webster ; so R. Browning, in the Lost Leader, be- 
wails — as it is generally understood — Wordsworth's 
' secession ' to the Tories. 



LYRIC POETRY. 5 I 

Finally, one must draw a sharp line between the sen- 
timental and the really pathetic. To the former class 
belong many vulgar but popular songs about blind peo- 
ple, drunkards, dead sweethearts, and so on ; to the lat- 
ter, Lamb's Old Familiar Faces. 

§ 6. PURELY REFLECTIVE, AND MISCELLANEOUS. 

Purely intellectual verse is too apt to be didactic. It 
easily drifts away altogether from the domain of poetry. 
Still, there are poems filled with exalted thought which 
deserve a high place. Such is Sir H. Wotton's How 
Happy is he Born and Taught (simple) ; such is, for 
more elaborate work, the Ode to Duty of Wordsworth, 
full of high enthusiasm. Much of Matthew Arnold's 
poetry is purely reflective. Here, too, we may mention 
such lyric poems with a strong epic leaning as Gray's 
Progress of Poesy ; Alexander 's Feast is of the same 
nature. Further, we note the ode addressed to a certai7i 
person, like Marvell's 'Horatian Ode' to Cromwell; 
Ben Jonson's Ode to Himself ; and many other poems 
more or less filled with the reflective, philosophical 
element. Here belong such half allegorical lyrics as 
George Herbert's Pulley, — ("When God at first made 
man"). As a reflective ode, pure and simple, wrought 
up to the highest fervor, there is nothing better than 
George Eliot's one poem, "O may I join the choir 
invisible!' 

Didactic poetry, as hinted above, can hardly be called 
in the strict sense, poetry. The difference between it 
and the reflective lyric may be thus stated : the latter 
allows the poetic suggestion of the senses or imagina- 
tion to lead the mind in certain channels {e.g., a dead 



52 POETICS. 

leaf, our mortality). The didactic poem forces our 
poetic instincts, as well as suggestions of the senses, 
into certain channels of its own. But this is putting 
Pegasus to the plough. 

§ 7. CONVIVIAL LYRICS; VERS DE SOCIETE. 

Man is social by nature, and from most ancient time 
he has had convivial songs. Drinking choruses and 
songs in honor of wine and good fellowship over the 
bowl, are found in every literature. The wandering 
" clerkes " of the middle ages were very skilful with this 
sort of lyric ; there are certain famous lines attributed 
to Walter Mapes : — 

" Meum est propositum 
In taberna mori," etc. 

In our own literature, drinking songs are numerous : 
thus in Bishop Still's play, Gammer Gurtotis Needle, 
there is a song inserted (probably taken from some 
popular ballad-collection of the day) in praise of ale, 
" / cannot eat but little meat!' The Dutch wars during 
Elizabeth's reign greatly increased drinking-excesses 
among the English ; and hence the frequent allusions 
to heavy drinking made by such writers as Shakspere ; 
the passages in Hamlet (1. 4) and Othello (11. 3) are 
well known. — One of the best short songs of this kind 
is in Antony and Cleopatra (11. 7), with the refrain, Cup 
us, till the world go round ; though for sheer Bac- 
chanalian glee and reckless merriment, the prize must 
be given to Burns' Willie brew d a peck d maut. In 
Beaumont and Fletcher's Valentinian, there is a fine 
drinking-song, God Lyoeus ever young. Anacreon was 
the master of this sort of poetry, — all his songs praise 



LYRIC POETRY. 53 

love or wine, — and the name Anacreontic is often 
applied to the convivial lyric. Thomas Moore has both 
translated Anacreon and also written many songs in the 
same vein. 

From strictly convivial lyrics we pass into that wide 
realm covered by the terra Vers de Societe. Locker, in 
his collection of such poems {Lyra Elegantiarum> Lon- 
don, 1867) quotes a definition of Vers de Societe: "It is 
the poetry of men who belong to society . . . who amid 
all this froth of society feel that there are depths in our 
nature which even in the gaiety of drawing-rooms can- 
not be forgotten. Theirs is the poetry of sentiment 
that breaks into humour. . . . When society ceases to 
be simple, it [i.e., Vers de Soc] becomes sceptical. 
. . . Emotion takes refuge in jest, and passion hides 
itself in scepticism of passion." Locker thinks Suck- 
ling and Herrick, Swift and Prior, Cowper and Thomas 
Moore, Praed and Thackeray, the representative men 
of this class of poetry. This vers de societe spreads 
itself over a wide area, and must, of course, cover some 
ground already marked off, — love, reflective, and other 
lyrics. The lower forms of this sort are lines in an 
album, a short note in verse, asking pardon for some 
blunder or omission, hits at passing folly, a valentine, 
and the like. Higher are poems like Clough's Spectator 
ab Extra, where sad earnest is hidden beneath a mock- 
ing tone. The poets of the Seventeenth Century were 
particularly apt in the former sort of verse ; besides 
Herrick, we have a number of graceful writers, such as 
Carew, and later, Prior, whose Ode, The Merchant to 
secure his treasure, is a brilliant specimen of the Vers 
de Societe. Carew and Herrick, 'pagan,' as Mr. Gosse 



54 POETICS. 

calls them, were the poets whose joyous, indolent verses 
made the Puritan Milton sigh a moment over his more 
serious task, and query if it were not perhaps better 
after all, "as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the 
shade, Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair." These 
lines from Lycidas admirably define a great part of the 
sort of poetry treated in this division, as opposed to the 
' high seriousness ' of Milton's own work. 

§ 8. OTHER LYRICAL FORMS. 

As a rule, the lyric is of no fixed length or form. 
But there are certain kinds of lyric which are bound by 
absolute limits as to quantity and confined to specified 
forms of verse. Such, for example, is the So7inet. The 
Sonnet is often reflective, but the prevailing tone is 
lyric. Its chief advantage lies in the compression of 
thought in the compass of fourteen lines, in which the 
changes of rime are also limited. Wyatt, Surrey, Sid- 
ney, and Daniel were among the first to use the sonnet, 
which was introduced from Italy into England. Shak- 
spere's so-called sonnets are not of the strict form, 
being three ' quatrains' followed by a 'couplet.' The 
true sonnet has two parts, — the octave and sestette : in 
the first eight lines the subject is introduced and ex- 
panded ; in the last six the conclusion or result is drawn 
out ; but both parts must relate to one main idea. [For 
further particulars as to form, cf. Part III.] 

As an outburst of pure feeling, Milton's splendid 
sonnet Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter d saints is perhaps 
the best in our tongue. Wordsworth (e.g., To Milton) 
and Keats (e.g., On first looking into Chapman s Homer) 
are masters of this form. The host of poor sonnets is 



LYRIC P'OETkY. 55 

enormous, the form seems so easy to handle ; but the 
really great sonnets are few. A sonnet must be tran- 
scendently good, or it ought not to exist. 

Lately we have seen a number of new lyrical forms 
brought into English by the younger modern school of 
poets. The Rondeati, the Rondel, the Triolet, the Bal- 
lade, the Villanelle, were invented by French poets of 
the Fourteenth and the Fifteenth Centuries. They 
depend, like the sonnet, on arrangement of rimes in a 
fixed number of verses, and tend to be even more intri- 
cate. When handled by a master, however, they are 
very agreeable, and lend themselves admirably to the 
purposes of Vers de Societe. \Cf. E. W. Gosse, Foreign 
Forms of Verse, Cornhill Magazine, 1877.] 

The Epigram is less rigid in form than the above, but 
it rarely exceeds four lines. The name defines purpose 
and origin : verses written on something, — say with 
a diamond on a window-pane. An ajttitkesis or pun is 
likely to be the base of the epigram. An Epitaph is 
something written on a tombstone, or supposed to be so 
written. Both epigram and epitaph may be serious or 
mocking. Serious is Landor's beautiful quatrain : — 

" I strove with none, for none was worth my strife ; 
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art ; 
I warmed both hands before the fire of life — 
It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 1 " 

Mocking is Rochester's combined epigram and (quasi) 
epitaph on Charles II. : — 

" Here lies our sovereign lord the kins:, 
Whose word no man relies on : 
Who never said a foolish thing 
Nor ever did a wise one.' 1 



56 " POETICS. 

A Cenotaph may be inscribed with verses as if it were 
the actual tomb ; — or else the fact may be told, as in 
those fine verses of Tennyson in Westminster Abbey on 
Sir John Franklin : " Not here ! the white north holds 
thy bones," etc. 

§ 9. LYRICAL BALLAD. 

We use this term, not in the sense of Wordsworth's 
Lyrical Ballads, but to indicate the folk-song, or ballad, 
that is lyrical rather than historical. Even the lyrical 
folk-song, like other forms of poetry, can be detected 
slipping back into the domain of religious rites and 
ceremonies. Thus we find rimed charms — verses sung 
to expel sickness, drought, tempest, etc. These were 
once parts of public worship ; Christianity banned 
them into all out-of-the-way corners, village customs, 
peasants' firesides, etc. They generally had an epic 
beginning, telling how the sickness was caused ; this 
was followed by the regular lyric, meant either to curse 
or to flatter the evil out of the possessed subject. The 
Indian " Medicine-man " with his charms \cf. etymology 
of charm] is a case in point. 

But the pure lyric was early developed among the 
people. Thus the Cuckoo Song, quoted above [cf. § 4] 
is a joyous folk-song to the spring. — Prefixed to a song 
of the Thirteenth Century is a little refrain to be sung 
after each stanza. This refrain is not by the author of 
the song, but must have then been an old catch, sung 
by the peasants time out of mind : — 

" Blow, northerne wynd, 
Send thou me my swetyng. 
Blow, northerne wynd. blow. blow, blow ! " 



LYRIC POETRY. 5/ 

Still, the lyric is essentially individual. We cannot 
claim, even for the so-called folk-lyric, or ballad, that 
spontaneous growth in the popular heart that we 
claimed for the epic folk-song. In nearly all cases we 
must assume individual authorship. So that the lyrical 
ballad is different from the lyrics we have just exam- 
ined only in so far as the former catches a simple and 
popular tone. Thus, in the verses — 

" O waly waly, but love be bonny 
A little time while it is new ; 
But when 'tis auld it waxeth cauld 
And fades awa' like morning dew " — 

we can very plainly hear this simple, popular tone ; 
whereas in Byron's famous lines — 

" My days are in the yellow leaf; 

The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
The worm, the canker, and the grief 
Are mine alone " — 

we recognize plainly the individual tone, though the 
sentiment is the same. And yet it is not impossible to 
put into a lyric that popular and simple beauty, as it is 
to put into an imitated ballad the sentiment of a whole 
people. Burns has caught the Scotch ' flavor/ if we 
may use such a term ; and his best poems are truly 
national, truly popular. As soon as he leaves his native 
dialect he is flat, and full of uninteresting mannerisms. 
The lyrical ballad is judged by its simplicity and sincer- 
ity ; in these qualities Burns and Wordsworth excel, 
though in very different ways. According to a Ger- 
man critic (Carriere), " in lyric poetry the highest 
result is reached when a great poet sings in the popular 
tone." This, certainly, is true of Burns. — as it is of 
Goethe. 



58 POETICS. 



CHAPTER III. — DRAMATIC POETRY. 

The Epic deals with the past, the Lyric with the 
present. The Drama unites the two conditions, and 
gives us the past in the present. Events are the epic 
basis ; but they unroll themselves before our eyes. We 
have the epic objectivity — Le., the sinking of the 
author's own thought and feeling in the work itself — 
in the lifelike course of events ; we have lyric fire in 
the different characters. What lyric can match, for 
example, Hamlet's beautiful tribute to friendship \Ham. 
in. 2] ; what love-songs compare with the passion of the 
exquisite little Tagelied, in Romeo and Juliet [in. 5] 
where the lovers part at daybreak ? What reflective 
lyric strikes a deeper note than Hamlet's famous solilo- 
quy on death ? — A drama, then, may be called an epic 
whole made up of lyric parts. Aristotle's definition is 
imitated action ; which is about the same thing. The 
lyric element in the drama makes it more rapid, more 
tumultuous than the epic, which, at its best, holds an 
even and stately pace. 

§ I. BEGINNINGS OF THE DRAMA. 

The drama is no exception to the rule concerning 
the origin of poetry ; it begins in religious rites. We 
shall here confine ourselves to the modern drama, par- 
ticularly the English, and trace its beginnings and 
development up to the time of Shakspere. [For a 
wider survey of the drama in general, see Ward's arti- 
cle " Drama" in the Encyclopedia Britannica ; for the 



DRAMATIC POETRY. 59 

English, see the same author's English Dramatic Lit- 
erature^ 

The Greek drama began in the Dionysian feasts ; 
our modern drama in the rites of the early Christian 
church. These were elaborate and impressive. By 
certain ceremonies — such as the Mass — effort was 
made to change the past history of the church into a 
present fact. The epic part, as Ward points out, was 
the reading of the Scripture narrative ; the lyric was 
the singing ; to these was added the dramatic. On cer- 
tain church festivals, the clergy were wont to bring in 
actual form before the people the events which the day 
commemorated; e.g., the marriage at Cana. At first 
the dialogue was in Latin ; but little by little the 
speech of the folk was brought in. " The French mys- 
tery of La Resurrection (Twelfth Century) is regarded as 
the first religious drama in the vulgar tongue." Thus 
arose the so-called Mysteries and Miracle-Plays. (The 
name should be mistery, as it is a corruption of miuis- 
terium.) Later than these — which were dramatic repre- 
sentations either of the Gospel narrative or of legends 
of the church — came the Moralities, where virtues, 
vices, and other allegorical figures appeared in appropri- 
ate costume. 

The only drama which our race knew before the Nor- 
man Conquest was of a rude kind. Until then, the old 
dialogues between Summer and Winter, and kindred 
attempts at dramatic representation, were all that Eng- 
lish literature could boast in that direction. But when 
the churchmen brought in the Sacred Drama, there 
soon arose a class of secular performers. These secu- 
lar performers were the successors to such as may 



6o POETICS. 

have presented the rude drama of heathen origin. 
True, a dialogue is not a drama ; but there was 
enough action in some of the dialogues to justify, 
despite Mr. Ward's assertion, the adjective ' dramatic,' 
as applied, e.g., to The Strife between Summer and Win- 
ter, preserved in German folk-song. Compare, further, 
two fine English dialogue-ballads : Lord Randal and 
Edward, Edward. They are throughout in dialogue. 
There is no narrative verse. The two speakers bring 
out the whole story ; though of course they do not act 
a story. Gervinus has shown the popular character of 
the English drama, and its close connection with the 
ballad. We know how much dialogue there is in many 
of our old narrative ballads : e.g., Sir Patrick Spens ; and 
there are dialogues in Anglo-Saxon poetry. Ward's dis- 
tinction is far too sharp to hold good, when he says : 
" Before the Norman Conquest there are no signs in 
our own literature of any impulse towards the dra- 
matic form." 1 

The drama meets a popular craving ; it gratifies that 
wish felt by all men to see their own life, its hopes and 
fears, pictured in the acts and life of another. So the 
rude miracle-plays took a human and even local color- 
ing. The minor characters now and then bore English 
names; there were English oaths, — rough, popular wit, 
— drastic acting: — all these means were used to bring 
the play home to men's " business and bosoms." 
Shakspere's clown, as well as the traditional * fool ' of 
our comedies to-day, goes back in direct line to the 
'Vice,' whose business it was to plague and worry 
Satan in eyery conceivable way. The drama, so devel- 

1 Vcl. I. p. 6, Hist. Eng. Dram. Lit. 



DRAMATIC POETRY. 6l 

oped, could not possibly continue to be a mere part of 
the church ceremonies. It attained an individual exist- 
ence, and grew to be a department of literature. 

The elements of this new drama were all present in 
these old Miracles and Moralities — but sadly confused, 
and jostling each other in a now intolerable fashion. 
Tragedy and Comedy were not sharply defined. " The 
Murder of Abel'' is in subject a tragedy; half the 
action, even in the critical part, is roughest horse-play. 
The miracle of " NoaJis Flood" however, was nearly all 
comedy : the patriarch flogs his wife because she will 
not go into the ark. Finally, there is the drama often 
called Reconciliation-Drama, because a threatened dan- 
ger is suddenly and unexpectedly removed. Of this 
class was the play "Abraham and Isaac." 

If imitated human action alone made a drama, a 
prize-fight would come under that head. But the mind 
of the spectator craves more : he demands that the 
actors shall be individuals of a sharply marked charac- 
ter. The action and the characters are the two great 
elements of the drama. In the best plays there must 
be a thorough blending of the two ; the action must at 
once shape and be shaped by the characters that take 
part in it. A distinction is usually made between the 
classical and the modern drama in this respect : in the 
former, we see a gigantic action, a manifestation of fate, 
dragging along with it characters whose struggling is 
in vain ; in the latter, the individual characters are the 
central interest, and the action seems more the result 
than the cause of the characters. Shakspere alone 
unites the advantages of ancient and modern drama. — 
In the old plays from which the Elizabethan drama 



62 POETICS. 

sprang, there was a rude but marked distinction on the 
above principle : where the action took precedence, the 
play was called a Mystery or a Miracle ; when the char- 
acters attracted the main interest, the result was the 
so-called Morality or Moral Play, 

§ 2. MIRACLE-PLAYS AND MYSTERIES. 

The highest form of the drama, the tragedy, is where 
human will and human action come in conflict with a 
higher power. Rough as they were, the Miracle-Plays 
fulfilled the demands of such a drama ; for there were 
both elements — human action and divine interposition. 
The fault was that this latter element was enormously 
exaggerated, and the only way to retain human interest 
was to introduce the low comedy noticed above. Still, 
there were many human attributes. The biblical 
heroes were human enough, and the interest of the 
spectators was easily aroused by the rude pathos of 
Abel's death, or by the edifying spectacle of a quarrel 
between man and wife. Scenery, too, was attempted ; 
and the costumes were regulated by dramatic consis- 
tency \cf. the word properties]. There are three well- 
known collections of these plays : the Towneley, the 
Chester, and the Coventry collections. From various 
sources we compile the following brief notice of the 
plays — their manner and matter. 

Each play was called a " pageant "; such was the name 
of the vehicle on which the play was exhibited (Ward). 
In Rogers' Account of the Chester Plays, written about 
the end of the Sixteenth Century, we are told that " every 
company had his pageant, which pageants were a high 
scaffold with two rooms, a higher and a lower, upon 



DRAMATIC POETRY. 6$ 

four wheels. In the lower they apparelled themselves, 
and in the higher room they played, being all open on 
the top, that all beholders might hear and see them. 
The places where they played them was (sic) in every 
street. They began first at the Abbey gates, and when 
the first pageant was played, it was wheeled to the high 
cross before the Mayor, and so to every street." As to 
costumes, the good souls wore white ; the condemned, 
black (" Black is the badge of hell" says the king in 
Loves Labour s Lost) ; and the angels wore " gold skins 
and wings." The sacred personages had golden beards 
and hair. Hell-torments were represented with consid- 
erable effect ; and mechanical devices were known — 
as where the cherry-tree miraculously bends down its 
branches at the command of Mary. 

As to the contents, actual stories from the Bible, or 
else legends of the church, were the common material 
to be dramatized. The action was not well knit to- 
gether into a harmonious whole ; but tended to be a 
mere series of situations. Thus in the murder of Abel, 
the tragedy does not from its central point spread over 
the play, in anticipation and result, but is confined 
to the scene where Abel is killed. Cain and his 
ploughboy indulge in comic dialogue after the murder ; 
there is allusion to the constable ; and the play ends 
with a travesty of an English royal proclamation. The 
Harrowing of Hell was one of the earliest subjects 
treated by the Miracle-Plays, — the well-known story, 
founded on the false gospel of Nicodemus, how Christ 
went down to hell, subdued it (harrow = harry), and 
released the patriarchs. The metre of these plays is 
rough; and is often full of the old alliterations: e.g., 



64 POETICS. 

the opening passage of Parfre's Murder of the Innocents 
— for Candlemas Day — 

" Above all kynges under the dowdys mstall, 
loyally I reign in welthe without woo, 
Of ^lesaunt ^rosperytie I lakke non at all; 
fortune I /ynde, that she is not my /bo. 
I am kyng Herowd " , etc. 

These rude plays utterly failed to satisfy the higher 
dramatic laws. As moving situations, as a patch- 
work of bald conversation, stiff action and occasional 
pathetic elements, they show a beginning, — but noth- 
ing more. The most wonderful fact in Elizabethan 
literature is the sudden leap made by the drama from 
such depths to the height of Edward II., of Lear and 
of Hamlet. The miracle-plays satisfied only the rudest 
dramatic instinct. Higher in every way was the effort 
made by the so-called Moralities — a second step toward 
the finished drama of Shakspere. — The Mysteries flour- 
ished chiefly from the Thirteenth to the Sixteenth 
Century, and were mostly presented by the different 
guilds or trading-companies. 

§ 3. MORAL PLAYS, OR MORALITIES. 

What the didactic allegory is to the epic, so is the 
morality to the drama. There is a decided attempt to 
portray character and to enforce a moral. But we find 
the same defect as in the Miracle-Plays. There we 
saw that bald representation of events satisfied the de- 
mand for action ; we look in vain for the finer art of a 
connected plot, a thread of purpose running through 
all the sayings and doings of the play. So, too, here ; 
instead of a person with a character, there is simply an 



■ 



DRAMATIC POETRY. 65 

abstract diameter or quality. Take the well-known 
Morality called Every Man. 

Every Man is one of the best of the Moral Plays. 
It is purely didactic, and shows, as the messenger or 
Prologue announces, — 

' ' how transitory we be all daye. 
Her shall you se how Felaweship and Jolyte, 
Bothe Strengthe, Pleasure and Beaute, 
Will fade from the as floure in maye ; 
For ye shall here how our heven kynge 
Calleth every-man to a generall rekenynge." 

Then God appears, calls "Dethe," and bids him go 
summon Every-man to make his pilgrimage and bring 
with him his ' reckoning' — i.e., of good and evil deeds; 
etc. Every-man is fain to evade this command, but can- 
not. Fellowship, called to help, promises to do any- 
thing and go anywhere ; but when he learns what the 
journey is, utterly refuses. Kindred, likewise, will not 
venture on such an expedition. "Goodes" is sum- 
moned ; but he lies in chests and bags and cannot stir. 
Every-man is desperate, but bethinks himself of "Good- 
dedes." Good-deeds lies 'colde in the grounde ' on 
account of Every-man's sins, and cannot move ; but 
Good-deeds' sister, Knowledge, goes with Every-man to 
that holy man Confession, who dwells in the ' hous of 
salvacyon' ; Every-man confesses his sins, does penance, 
and so releases Good-deeds, who can now 'walke and go.' 
Discretion, Beauty, Strength, are called together, and 
also Five-wits. But they all refuse to go with Every- 
man, although they give good advice enough ; for 
Beauty and the others run as fast as they can when 
they see Every-man begin to fail in death. Good-deeds, 



66 POETICS. 

however, remains ; Knowledge tarries till the last mo- 
ment. Every-man, after commending his soul to God, 
dies (on the stage) ; and there is an epilogue which 
further enforces the very palpable moral. 1 

Not so good is the Moral Play Lusty Juventus, which 
attacks the church. Among the characters are Abhom- 
inable Livyng, God's Mercy ful Promises, and the like. It 
was written under Edward VI., for whom Good Councel 
makes a prayer at the end of the play. 

The Moralities are an advance on the Miracles ; they 
humanize the characters to a considerable degree, and 
the nature of the play makes consistency of action 
more imperative than in the loose progress of a Mystery, 
Where a serious character may suddenly wax comic. 
The development of the drama was now rapid : action 
and character were to be woven together and made 
into a dramatic unity. A step in this direction is a 
sort of historical morality called King John. It has 
been attributed to Bishop Bale. King John is asked 
by the widow England to help her against her op- 
pressors. Other characters are Sedition, Clergy, etc., 
but it is important to note that now and then a real 
name is used instead of an abstraction. Thus, Sedition 
becomes Stephen Langton. Compared with Shaks- 
pere's play of the same name, King John is crude to 
the last degree. But it is an advance from the older 
plays. There is still a yawning chasm between it and 
the Elizabethan drama ; to bridge this chasm, materials 
were soon supplied. Chief of these are the foreign 
impulses and influences and the Interlude. 

1 For the subject and sources of this play, see an interesting treatise, 
Every-Man, Hamulus uud Ilekastos, by Carl Goedeke, Hanover, 1865. 



DRAMATIC POETRY. 67 

§ 4. FOREIGN MODELS. 

The revival of learning found a hearty welcome in 
England. Greek and Latin were carefully studied ; and 
under Henry VIII., men like Erasmus, Colet and Sir 
Thomas More made the " new learning " famous. The 
Latin plays of Plautus and Terence, — comedies, — and 
the tragedies of Se?ieca, were studied, translated, and 
even acted in the original before the universities. The 
Italian imitations of these plays were likewise read with 
interest. The Mysteries and Moralities ceased to 
please. A better taste arose. General history was 
eagerly studied. People demanded that the drama 
should treat of human life in a concrete way. But not 
only subject-matter, — the form and style of the drama 
were greatly influenced by the study of foreign models. 

Here, then, was a public with its insipid miracle plays; 
a learned class with its foreign dramas. Neither was 
national. But working mightily in both classes was the 
strong intellectual life that rose with the English 
national spirit and reached its height under Elizabeth. 
The task was to find a common ground for the learned 
and the popular taste. This was found in the Interlude. 

§ 5. THE INTERLUDE. 

John Heywood was the genius of the Interlude. It 
was a play performed, as its name implies, in the inter- 
vals of feasts or other entertainments. It was of a light 
character. Take, for example, Heywood's Four P's. 
A palmer, a pardoner^ and a apothecary meet and, after 
some dialogue, contend who is the greatest liar of the 
three. The pedler is judge. Each tells his test-tale ; 



68 POETICS. 

the 'pothecary wins the prize, for he says he has seen 
hosts of women, but never one out of patience. Here 
at last are actual human characters, with a thoroughly 
human action. 

This is not' very high comedy, it is true ; but it is a 
great advance upon the fleshless abstractions of the 
moralities, from which the comedy is really descended. 
Further interludes of later origin are such as Shakspere 
introduces in The Tempest, Love' s Labour s Lost and 
Midsummer Night s Dream. Some of these interludes 
are called " Masques " or Masks. The Mask proper 
was an Italian importation, brought over early in Henry 
VIII. 's reign. Men and women, disguised as shepherds, 
shepherdesses, and the like, went through a certain 
amount of acting, mixed with a great deal of dancing. 
Often classic deities were represented. The Mask as 
developed by Ben Jonson became very elaborate. The 
greatest English Mask is, of course, Milton's Comus. 

These Interludes and Masks raised the popular taste. 
Now that the public demanded such work, the play- 
wright could avail himself of classical models, and put 
into English settings the jewels of Seneca and Plautus. 
The dividing lines of tragedy and coinedy were now 
sharply drawn. Tragedy appears in its first English 
guise in the play (about 1562) by Thomas Norton and 
Lord Buckhurst, called G orb due or Ferrex and Porrex. 
The characters are human, the interest human. The 
plot is from the (mythical) history of Britain. The play 
resembles the old miracles in its rough action, its love 
of violence and blood ; it differs from them in its care- 
fully drawn and consistent plot, its division into acts, 
its more elaborate form. As in Greek plays, the mur- 






DRAMATIC POETRY. 69 

clers are here announced by a messenger. There is a 
dumb-show prefixed to each act, showing what is to fol- 
low ; and at the end of each act is a chorus. (For the 
dumb-show, compare the play in Hamlet, where the 
poison is poured into the ear of the player-king.) — Gor- 
boditc is an imitation of Seneca. Plautus's well-known 
comedy of "The Braggart Soldier" {Miles Gloriosus) 
is imitated in the First English Comedy, entitled Ralph 
Roister-Doister, written by Nicholas Udall, of Eton, 
about 1550. But the names, scenes, etc., are all Eng- 
lish. There is an elaborate plot and spirited action. 
A pretty song is woven into the play-, — forerunner of 
those exquisite lyrics that sparkle in the drama of Shak- 
spere and Fletcher. 

We have thus come to the threshold of our national 
drama. The task before its early artists is plain enough. 
All the rude remnants of the old plays must be worked 
out ; simplicity, vigorous action, whatever was best in 
the old must fit itself in the new to a finished art, a 
sympathetic study of human nature. Marlowe, Shak- 
spere, Fletcher and Jonson tell how this was done. — 
We can, therefore, now treat the finished drama, its 
forms and rules. 

§ 6. THE DIFFERENT KINDS OF DRAMA. 

First, however, a word about certain general rules for 
the drama. The drama is imitated human action. Now, 
human action is a complex affair ; it is by no means the 
province of a dramatist to imitate any action or series 
of actions just as they occur in daily life. A confused 
mass of human action may be subordinately used — as 



yo POETICS. 

in Schiller's Wallensteiri s Camp, or a mob-scene, — but 
it must be a help to a higher purpose. The action is 
grouped about a single controlling purpose ; in short, 
there must be Unity of Action. This restriction on the 
nature of the action is the first of the so-called Three 
Unities ; and in the observance of this rule all great 
dramatists agree. For it is not at all necessary that 
the action should consist of one event, as some have 
understood the rule. Many events may go together ; 
but each — not necessarily in a conscious way — must 
have its share in the development of the central dra- 
matic purpose. Nor does unity of action compel a 
unity of person. Thus the dramatic unity of King Lear 
is not broken by the introduction of Gloster, Edmund 
and Edgar with their subordinate action. Several 
heroes are allowable in a play, provided only that they 
do not so change places or importance that one part of 
the play differs in spirit and purpose from the other. 

The second and third " unities " are by no means of 
equal importance with the first, nor are they so gener- 
ally acknowledged. Thus (2) the Unity of Time. The 
structure of the Greek drama was of such a nature as 
to call for far stricter treatment in this regard than is 
demanded by the modern drama. But the French 
critics of Louis XIV.'s time made the classical standard 
their own, and scoffed at Shakspere as a barbarian 
because he disregarded the second and third unities. 
It was Lessing, the great German critic and man of let- 
ters, who finally drove the French school from their 
dictatorship in dramatic composition. True, some 
observance of the spirit of these rules is to be desired 
in all dramatists. The strict rule forbade the supposed 



DRAMATIC POETRY. 7 1 

time of the play to cover more than twenty-four hours. 
So boldly did the modern drama transgress this rule 
that in 1578 George Whetstone (in his Promos and Cas- 
sandra) complained that the playwright " in three hours 
runs through the world, marries, makes children men, 
men to conquer kingdoms, murder monsters, and bring- 
eth gods from heaven and fetcheth devils from hell." 
In the Winter s Tale we have some similar liberties. 
The Greek drama took for its time the central moment 
of the action ; and by narration in dialogue brought out 
the preceding steps that led up to the main situation. 
The result is announced by a messenger, — e.g., the 
death of the protagonist, or chief actor. In other words, 
the Greek tragedy goes at once to the catastrophe. In 
the modern drama we begin with the elements of the 
catastrophe or, if in a comedy, of the entanglement, 
and let the action and the characters develop under our 
eyes. The modern play has less intensity, but more 
human interest. 

The third Unity, that of Place, demanded that the 
events should occur in one and the same place. This 
is what Hamlet (11. 2) calls " scene individable." Un- 
doubtedly this rule sprang from the peculiar construc- 
tion of the Greek stage, which was not at all adapted 
to change of scene. But in modern drama the Unity of 
Place is practically disregarded — except in certain 
comedies and farces ; and Shakspere especially changes 
his scenes with the greatest freedom. Sir Philip Sid- 
ney in his Defence of Poesie laughs at this ceaseless shift- 
ing of scene and the inadequate stage machinery to help 
the illusion. The Germans take a middle course, keep- 
ing the same scene as long as possible, but changing it 
when absolutely necessary. 



/2 POETICS. 

So much for the Three Unities. It is folly to insist 
on the literal observance of these rules ; but it is impor- 
tant to heed their spirit. Every playwright should be 
regulated by the spirit of unity, first of all in action, but 
also to some extent in time and place. 

Further rules are laid down for the drama, — e.g., that 
the action should be complete in itself. It must stand 
out clearly as a dramatic whole. To make the action 
complete, there must be, as parts of the organic whole, 
causes, development of these causes, a climax, or height 
of the action; — then the consequences and general con- 
clusion. The technical division into five acts is simply 
a convenience, and is taken from the Latin plays ; Hor- 
ace says, A. P. 189: Neve minor neu sit quint o pro due tior 
actu. The further division into scenes is more with 
regard to persons (especially in German and French 
plays), while the acts regard the action or plot. We 
may name the real divisions of a play as follows : 1. The 
Exposition ; 2. The Tying of tlie Knot ; 3. Conclusion, 
— The Untying. Prologue, epilogue, etc., are mostly 
outside the action of the play; although cf "the pro- 
logue in heaven" in Faust, and, in another fashion, the 
prologue to Ben Jonson's New Inn. We noted also 
the Dumb- Show in G orb dice. 

The Exposition is mostly contained in the first act. 
The second, third, and sometimes the fourth, develop 
the action up to a climax. This is what Aristotle 
calls the tying of the knot. Lastly, in the fifth comes 
the denouement, the untying. Here great skill is 
required. Says Mr. Ward, "the climax concentrated 
the interest ; the fall must not dissipate it.." And here 
we note that this close or catastrophe must always be a 
consequence of the action. 






DRAMATIC POETRY. 73 

In tragedy, the conclusion (mostly a death) is fore- 
shadowed through the whole play ; in comedy, the con- 
clusion (mostly a wedding) is a sudden surprise. Thus 
in Othello, we feel that the hero's jealousy must lead to 
some great evil, and overwhelm him. 1 While, on the 
other hand, we cannot always call the marriage of hero- 
ine with hero something totally unexpected, still we are 
surprised to find what seemed insuperable barriers to 
such a consummation suddenly removed. 

Again, the action ought to be probable. Here belongs 
the famous dictum : prefer probable impossibilities to 
improbable possibilities. The impossible is permitted if 
it harmonizes with the action. Thus we may introduce 
ghosts, fairies, and so on ; though in Shakspere's time 
ghosts were by no means commonly regarded as impos- 
sibilities. 

Consistency of cliaracter and fitness of the actors to the 
action need not be insisted upon. Here is Shakspere's 
greatest triumph. Instead of mere types of character 
like the lady's-maid and valet of French comedy, his 
men and women are flesh and blood, who do not merely 
follow a set model, but stand as ideals of their sort : we 
can say Romeo — and a distinct personage leaps before 
the mind. Emerson has finely said of this wonderful 
power of Shakspere in creating characters : " What 
office, or function, or district of man's work has he not 
remembered ? What king has he not taught state ? . . . 
What maiden has not found him finer than her delicacy ? 

1 The climax and the conclusion must, of course, be held apart. In 
Othello the conclusion is Othello's death; the climax is where lie becomes 
sure of his wife's guilt. " Why did I marry?" he cries in his first doubt ; 
then, with certitude, comes to sheer violence. 



74 POETICS. 

What lover has he not outloved ? What sage has he 
not outseen ? " — The Greek drama concentrated itself 
upon the action, and drew its characters in more shad- 
owy outline : they were not so much individuals as 
Shakspere's men and women were. 

Finally, the surroundings of the action must be con- 
sistent. They need not be chronologically faithful — 
else Lear and Julius Ccesar would be condemned ; but 
they must not make a violent contradiction with the 
general action. 

§ 7. TRAGEDY. 

Tragedy presents a mortal will at odds with fate. 
This conflict and the final overthrow of the individual 
make up a tragic drama. There must be a central 
character (or there may be more than one, — a group). 
The motive of this character may be either mistaken or 
criminal {Othello — Macbetli) ; but the end is in either 
case tragic. 

The effect upon the spectator is, as Aristotle said, 
to produce in the mind pity and terror ; — sympathy for 
the victim, fear that a like fate may overtake us. This 
emotion excites the mind, "purges" it of smaller and 
unworthy thoughts, and so works a katharsis, a purifica- 
tion. It leaves one in " calm of mind, all passion 
spent." 

When all this danger is only apparent, when we see 
that only every-day blunders, without lasting conse- 
quences, are at work, we feel no pity, no terror ; we 
are amused : — it is a Comedy. 

The name Tragedy is an accident. The Greek 
drama began with a mere chorus, or dithyrambic refrain, 



DRAMATIC POETRY. 75 

sung at the feasts of Dionysos, and the singers were 
dressed in goat-skins : hence (probably) tragedy (= "goat- 
song," from tragos, a goat). To such a chorus was 
added some one who chanted epic poems ; this person 
acted more or less, and addressed his chant to the leader 
of the chorus, who answered singly or with the whole 
chorus : so, little by little, the tragedy (or drama) was 
developed. ^Eschylus and Sophocles added more actors. 
The modern tragedy is far more complex than the an- 
cient ; and there is also a charming trait in Shakspere's 
tragedies which was unknown to* the sterner drama of 
Greece, — the gleam of hope, of a new dawn, following 
on the night of ruin and despair. Thus in Hamlet, as 
a German critic has pointed out, we have young For- 
tinbras, who will doubtless " set right " the times that 
Hamlet found so "out of joint." So with Richmond in 
Richard III. , with Malcolm in Macbeth ; in Romeo and 
Juliet it is the reconciliation of the rival houses. And 
yet the Greeks, too, recognized in their way that a true 
tragedy always ends in the triumph of the good over 
the evil. The hero may perish, but his death brings 
about good in the end. The tragedy purifies emotion, 
chastens the impulses, teaches men to accept the order 
of things and to believe that all is for the best : — 

" Men must endure 
Their going hence, even as their coming hither : 
Ripeness is all." 

Lowell ably sums up the difference between classical 
and modern tragedy : "the motive of ancient drama is 
generally outside of it, while in the modern . . . it is 
within." 



j6 POETICS. 

§ 8. IMITATIONS OF THE GREEK TRAGEDY. 

The noblest English example of these is Milton's 
Samson Agonistes. The time is limited to twenty-four 
hours ; there is a Chorus ; the catastrophe is announced 
by a messenger. In our day, Swinburne has closely 
followed a Greek model in his Atalanta in Calydon, and 
in his Erechtheus — the latter a splendid piece of work, 
with elaborate arrangement of the chorus (in Strophe, 

Antistrophe, and Epode), and a pure and lofty diction. 

« 

§ 9. COMEDY. 

Tragedy sets forth the triumph of the general over 
the particular, of law over individuals. In Comedy, 
it is the individual who triumphs over the complications 
of life. — But the term " Comedy " needs definition ; 
the above will not explain all the uses of the word. 

Dante called his great work a comedy, and simply 
meant that it was not a tragedy, that it had no unhappy 
ending. Cf. Chaucer's use of the word " tragedy." The 
name Comedy is not absolutely clear as to its origin. 
Probably it was derived from the songs sung by bands 
of men who thus celebrated the Dionysian feasts. In 
these songs, people and customs were held up to ridi- 
cule. From the Greek word for such a festal proces- 
sion or band, we have the name Comedy. A chorus 
was joined to these single songs, and thus the Greek 
Comedy was begun. English Comedy, on the other 
hand, sprang from the Moral Plays, passing first into 
the Interludes, and also aided by the models of classical 
as well as modern Italian Comedy, — but especially "by 
Plautus and Terence. These, in their turn, had imi- 
tated the later Grecian Comedy. 






DRAMATIC POETRY. *]>] 

Comedy takes a cheerful view of things. The sense 
of perplexity, so common in our lives, is rendered sor- 
rowful by tragedy, mirthful by comedy. In one case, 
tears; in another, laughter, is what "purges" the 
mind. — In tragedy we hold as doomed and guilty even 
those who innocently mistake. In comedy we are 
tender toward human frailty. Falstaff is a coward : as 
Dowden says, he is "a gross-bodied, self-indulgent old 
sinner, devoid of moral sense and of self-respect, and 
yet we cannot part with him." 

Comedy lies either in the characters, or in the situa- 
tion, or in both. The best is where .both are blended 
in a mellow atmosphere that has no kindred with sor- 
row, nor yet with uproarious laughter. Such a comedy 
is found in As You Like It or in Twelfth Night. — The 
comedy that relies entirely on situation is called a Farce. 
— English comedy since Shakspere has been handled 
with great success by Congreve, by Goldsmith, and by 
Sheridan ; but at present seems utterly dead. Most of 
our modern plays are adapted from the French. 

Under Comedy are often included plays which really 
are not comic, and yet are not tragic, for the ending 
is happy. A threatened danger is at last averted, but 
not until near the end of the play. This sort is some- 
times called Tragi-Comedy, which is an absurd name. 
Shakspere and Fletcher's Two Noble Kinsmen has an 
ending at once sorrowful and happy : one hero is killed, 
the other is finally married to the heroine. The Ger- 
mans call the drama which is neither tragedy nor 
comedy Versohnungs drama, the reconciling drama ; this 
we consider below. — Comic scenes are often woven 
into tragedy ; and, vice versa, though rarely, tragedy is 



78 POETICS. 

found in some one scene of a comedy. But we shall 
find that such a mixture is successful only when some 
particular end of the plot is to be served. 

Comedy is the grand field for " poetical justice." 
The miser is tricked, caught in his own snare ; the 
proud is brought low ; honest merit is crowned ; true 
love — though it never runs smoothly — comes to a 
happy union; and even the fool is made happy. In 
fact, Shakspere's clowns often teach us the lesson that 
a fool's wisdom is about as near the mark as the world's 
wisdom. In Lear, this is a tragic and bitter lesson ; 
but in As You Like It, we acknowledge the truth of it 
in a laugh. — The comedy is the tragedy with all ele- 
ments of danger removed. We feel this from the 
beginning ; we do not weep, but laugh. Like the 
tragedy, therefore, comedy has its exposition, develop- 
ment, climax, and conclusion. Instead of death and 
ruin which close the tragedy, we have in the comedy, 
as the curtain falls, the group of characters all united 
and happy. Even the villain, after he has been soundly 
punished for his wickedness, often turns over a new 
leaf, and announces resolutions of prodigious virtue. 

As to the form, tragedy is fond of verse ; — comedy 
inclines to prose. The tragedy is full of resounding 
lines, is further removed from the ways of real life, — 
uses more elaborate diction, figures and general con- 
struction. The comedy — notably in Congreve, Gold- 
smith and Sheridan- — tends to be brilliant, especially 
in the direction of rapid and sparkling dialogue. There 
is also much of this word-fencing in Shakspere. 



DRAMATIC POETRY. 79 

§ IO. RECONCILING-DRAMA. 

The name Tragi-Comedy is, as we said, absurd. No 
play can be at once tragedy and comedy. To be sure, 
life is made up of the two elements, and the drama is a 
copy of life ; but, as Lessing pointed out, only Infinity 
could be spectator of this infinite variety, and man is 
bound to take a definite point of view — either the 
comic or the tragic. Dryden {Essay on Dramatic Poetry) 
says sharply but truthfully: " There is no theatre in 
the world has anything so absurd as the English Tragi- 
comedy. . . here a course of mirth', there another of 
sadness and passion, and a third of honor and a duel : 
thus in two hours and a half we run through all the fits 
of Bedlam." And he goes on to say that mirth, the 
result of comedy, is incompatible with compassion, the 
end of tragedy: the two results destroy each other. — 
Dryden, in principle, is perfectly right. And we shall 
find, in spite of a superficial mingling of comic and tragic 
in some of Shakspere's plays, that each play has a uni- 
form spirit and tendency running through every scene. 
Thus in Hamlet, the clown's joking by the grave 
awakens no real mirth : it deepens the sense of tragedy. 

But there is nevertheless a third sort of drama. It 
is not made up of tragic and comic elements, but it is 
a harmony, a reconciling -of the two. The tragic con- 
flict is softened to a triumph of earnest will over heavy 
obstacles ; the wantonness and wilfulness of comedy 
are dignified into serious purpose. So Henry }\ is 
made by Shakspere to represent a serious and lofty 
purpose that gains its object ; but the cheerfulness of 
life is also admitted. Another example is Goethe's 



80 POETICS. 

Iphigenie. Carriere further names, under this head, The 
Merchant of Venice, Cymbeline, and Measure for Meas- 
ure. In these a threatened danger is averted, partly 
through Providence, partly through the energy of the 
characters themselves. In these plays, too, we have 
some of Shakspere's noblest women put in the fore- 
front of the action : — Portia, Imogen and Isabella. — 
With Goethe's Faust, finally, we reach the subjective 
drama. It is the development of a human soul : not 
tragedy, not comedy, — but the subjective drama, 
teaching the lesson of incessant individual struggle to 
higher stages of life and action, — " evermore to strive 
towards the highest existence/' 1 This poem comes as 
near as a poem well can to perfect reconciliation of 
tragedy and comedy : it is a drama of the human soul 
wrestling with all the problems of life. 

§ II. OTHER FORMS OF THE DRAMA. 

Not strictly dramatic, but tending in that direction 
are such forms of poetry as the Idyll. The Idyll is 
mainly literary — for reading, not for acting. It is 
originally a dialogue of shepherd and shepherdess, or of 
similar characters, and has a strong epic flavor \cf. I. 
§ 5]. A charming example of the dramatic Idyll in its 
highest form is the famous Fifteenth Idyll of Theocri- 
tus. Then there are Eclogues — much like the last, 
except that Eclogues are confined to shepherds and 
their friends, while the Idyll just noted had for char- 
acters a couple of city dames, and contained a song 
and abundant action. The Eclogue is quiet and rural. 
In English we have Spenser's Shepherd f s Calender. 

1 "Zum hochsten Daseyn immerfort zu streben." Faust, II. Act I. 



DRAMATIC POETRY. 8 I 

Finally, there arose a regular Pastoral Drama y whose 
origin "was purely literary." Famous as models of this 
sort were Tasso's Aminta and Guarini's Pastor Fido. 
Love and Allegory were the main ingredients. In 
England there were two branches: — the Mask (already 
noticed) and the regular Pastoral Drama, of which the 
best examples are Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess and 
Ben Jonson's Sad Shepherd (fragmentary). The splen- 
did Mask of Comus soars above its fellows by reason 
not only of its exquisite versification and diction, but 
also of its lofty moral tone. Properly speaking, this 
sort of poetry should be only a dance--song with masks. 
But the masks give a character to each dancer — he must 
sing, or speak, in conformity with this character — and 
so comes the dramatic element. 

Nowadays this Pastoral Drama is unknown. But 
combined with music it is still common enough. We 
mean, of course, The Opera. The opera, says Schlegel, 
is " the anarchy of the arts ; since music, dancing and 
decoration, struggling to outrank one another, make up 
[its] real character." Recently, Wagner has tried to 
reconcile the best poetry — both in subject and treat- 
ment — with the best music. But in general the opera 
has no literary merit. 

We need not consider at length the minor forms of 
dramatic poetry. Such are the Tagelied (Provencal, 
Alba) or Daybreak-Songs of parting lovers, very popular 
among the troubadours and certain German Minne- 
sanger : — for example, the bold figures and masterly 
diction of Wolfram. A specimen in English is the 
parting scene of Romeo and Juliet, in. 5. Similar is 
the Serenade^ where lover and mistress sing alternate 



82 POETICS. 

stanzas : there is a pretty specimen by Sir P. Sidney. 
With more epic treatment, the same dramatic form is 
shown in R. Browning's In a Gondola. 

Lastly, we have what may be termed Mock-Tragedy. 
All dramatic forms are used, but in broad burlesque. 
Carey and Fielding mocked the stilted tragic style of 
Lee and others in two amusing plays; — the title of 
Fielding's is " The Tragedy of Tragedies, or the Life 
and Death of Tom Thumb the Great. With the Anno- 
tations of H. Scribblerus Secundus." It Is to be borne 
in mind that the fact of two persons talking to each 
other does not constitute a drama, is not even necessarily 
dramatic in any degree. Hence a dialogue, or exchange 
of opinions in verse, belongs to the didactic class, and 
is, as a rule, not even poetry (cf. Chap. I. § 4). 

§ 12. OUTWARD FORM OF THE DRAMA. 

We saw that Tragedy tends to verse, and Comedy 
(though not always) to prose. Further, the drama may 
avail itself of the Chorus, the Monologue, or the Dia- 
logue. The first, as we saw, is much used in the classic, 
especially the Greek drama. In modern drama it is not 
common (cf. § 8) ; though here and there met with, — as 
in Gorboduc, where it is imitated from the tragedies of 
Seneca ; or in Henry V., where it is a chorus only in 
name, and simply helps to explain the action. The 
Monologue is more common. Hamlet is remarkable in 
this respect. But the great favorite is the Dialogue, 
which, in its rapid movement and shifting character, 
lends itself better to the purposes of imitated action 
than any other form of speech. 






Part II. 

STYLE. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Poetry, then, may treat its subject-matter as an Epic, 
— by narration : or as Lyric, — by -addressing it, ex- 
pressing certain feelings about it : or as Drama, — by 
letting it speak for itself. 

We now ask whether there is anything noteworthy 
in the words and phrases by which poetry treats its sub- 
ject; that is, we consider Poetical Style. In the third 
and last division of this book we shall treat the harmony 
of sounds, the laws of verse. So that of the three 
elements of poetry, we have considered the Thought, 
have yet to consider the Sounds, and now busy our- 
selves with Words — whether separately or in combina- 
tion. Prof Sylvester calls these elements Pneumatic, 
Rhythmic, and Linguistic. 

The study of poetical style must be to some extent 
a study of words and their origin. Comparative Phi- 
lology has shown us that all our words go back to 
descriptions of natural things, to pictures. With the 
currency of words, their pictorial suggestion wears away. 
They become mere counters for the game of conversa- 
tion ; thus caprice is now for most of us (though cf. As 
You Like It, III. 3. 6) a symbol of an abstract thought, 



84 POETICS. 

not the picture of a lively animal. So, too, with that 
old word " daughter " : it is now a class-name, whereas 
once, we are told, it meant "milkmaid." Even words 
brought into our speech in later times suffer a like 
process, and lose their color and force. We are not 
prepared to talk with Herrick about the " candor " of 
Julia's teeth ; or as Bacon does, about the ejaculations of 
the eye, or even with Milton, about " elephants endorsed 
with towers." 

Poetry instinctively shrinks from colorless and ab- 
stract talk. Prose concerns itself with the sense alone ; 
but poetry always seeks a concrete image. Therefore 
it tries to restore a fresh and suggestive force, a pic- 
torial force, to our speech. It leaves the beaten track 
of language, turns away from it. Hence the word trope, 
from the Greek trepo, — to turn. 

Now we may turn away from the ordinary meanings 
of words, that is, we may use a different kind of word, 
to make up our poetical style ; or we may adopt a differ- 
ent arrangement of words. In ordinary speech we say 
directly : " A troop came swinging their broadswords." 
In poetical, vivid style, we say : " Came a troop with 
broadswords swinging." There is a turning from the 
ordinary arrangement, and a consequent vigor of style. 
Inversions like this are also used in vivid conversation ; 
but no one would ever say in common speech, as Milton 
says in poetry — 

" Erroneous there to wander and forlorn.'' 1 

Poetical style is therefore distinguished from ordinary 
speech by the use (i) of a different kind, and (2) of a 
different arrangement of words. The two terms which 



L 



STYLE. 85 

we shall employ to distinguish these two kinds of style 
are terms not always held apart. But this arbitrary 
use is convenient. We call the first (a different kind), 
which refers to the meaning, Trope ; we call the sec- 
ond (different arrangement), which refers to the order, 
Figure. 

Tropes and Figures make up the bulk of those pecu- 
liarities of style which we are wont to call poetic. But 
there are other means by which we make expression 
more vivid ; and though these latter, like many figures 
and tropes, are frequently used in an ordinary prose 
style, still they must be briefly mentioned as aids to 
poetic language. Thus instead of the variation from 
ordinary expressions, we may have additions. Familiar 
are the " poetic " adjectives and adverbs. As a rule, an 
abundance of adjectives means poverty of imagination. 
But often an adjective may " connote " so much as to 
make a positive addition to the vividness which is the 
object of poetry. When Marlowe speaks of "shallow 
rivers by whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals," 
the imagination registers a gain. " Shallow " suggests 
clearness, murmurs, ripples, etc. So, too, Shakspere's 
"multitudinous sea." Springing from the same intense 
and abiding wish of poetry to avoid the commonplace, 
the cold, the abstract, is the use of Epithets (cf. below 
§ I, under Kenning). The epic cannot mention even a 
hero's name without attaching to it a concrete notion : 
it is "crest-tossing Hector," " swift -footed Achilles." 
From this to trope is only a step ; we next make an 
object more vivid, more individual, by the aid of another 
object {cf. below, Metaphor). The limit of this process 
is reached, when, instead of a rapid confusion of one 



86 POETICS. 

object with another, the poet places them both before 
our eyes and thus makes the original thing compared 
as individual and important as possible (Simile). [An 
attempt to explain the superiority of poetic style to 
prose style will be found in § IV. of H. Spencer's Phi- 
losophy of Style.] 

§ I. HISTORICAL SKETCH. 

Professor Heinzel 1 has shown that many traits of 
poetical style are common to the Indian Vedas and our 
own early Germanic song. We consider briefly some 
of the prominent traits. First, there is the love of 
repetition. This affects words (subject or object) and 
phrases. In the Vedas : "now will I sing Indra's hero- 
deeds, that the lightning-hurler has done." Indra is 
repeated under another name — a descriptive name. 
Something like this is Lear's — 

"I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot, 
Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove." 

Act ii. Sc. 4. 

Look at Beowulf, and we have a similar figure ; as in 

3 1 1 1 ft : — 

" Then straightway bade the son of Wihstan, 

the man battle-keen many of the heroes, 

of the house-owners, that they hither should bring 

from far the bale-wood, the folk-shielders." 

In prose : " Wihstan's son, the battle-keen man, bade 
many of the heroes, the house-owners, that they, the 
folk-shielders, should bring funeral-wood. ,, The result 
of this repetition in Anglo-Saxon poetry is to give a 
restless, forward-and-back motion to it, so that, as ha^ 

1 Ueber den Stil der altgermanischen Poesie, Strasburg, 1875. 



STYLE. 87 

been said, we seem to be very active, but do not move 
forward. This is in strong contrast to the quiet move- 
ment of the Greek epic. 

Sometimes this " Variation " is applied to a whole 
clause. Thus Beowulf, 48 ff . : — 

" They let the wave bear him, 
they gave him to ocean ; grave was their heart, 

mournful their mood." 

But there are also tropes in the stricter sense of the 
word. Our oldest poetry has almost no formal compari- 
sons or similes (cf. below). It had no time to turn to a 
quite foreign object and describe it, leaving, meanwhile, 
the matter in hand, as the Homeric poems are so fond 
of doing. But our poetry makes up for this lack by its 
profusion in Epithets, or characteristics. For the thing 
itself is substituted a characteristic of the thing. This 
trope is often called by its Norse name, Kenning. Thus 
the sea was the "whale's bath," the " water-street," the 
"path of the swan," the "foamy fields," the "wave- 
battle," and so on. Arrows are " battle-adders." See 
too the above extracts from Beowulf. A wife is prettily 
called " the weaver of peace," for marriage often put a 
stop to feuds and wars. 

It is to be noted that the Anglo-Saxon trope was 
confined to a few words. It did not take long flights. 
Extended metaphorical phrases are unknown. A short, 
vivid epithet, — often several such, not at all harmoni- 
ously joined, — much repetition, variation, ceaseless 
forward-and-back : such are the chief characteristics. 
Speaking of a sword, the poet tells us "the battle- 
gleam was unwilling to bite." "Battle-gleam" is a 
vivid trope for literal " sword " ; but by the time the 



88 POETICS. 

poet reaches his verb, he has forgotten his noun, and 
does not stop to ask how a " gleam" can "bite," but 
uses another vivid word simply with regard to the com- 
mon (cf. below) personification of weapons. Here lie 
at once the merit and the defect of our old poetical 
style. There is also something of this haste in Hebrew 
poetry. 

It is a long journey from the style of those poets who 
sang of their Germanic heroes to the finish and bril- 
liancy of a modern singer who can not only " take all 
knowledge for his province," but also use a hundred 
smooth roads through it. The style of Beowulf differs 
from the style of Tennyson just as a prairie of last 
century differs from the wheat-field of to-day. The 
enormous change is due chiefly to the influence of the 
Greek and Latin classics, in which flourished every sort 
of trope and figure. Modern literature is essentially 
"Gothic" — i.e. Germanic; but its style of expression is 
overwhelmingly classical in all external qualities. A 
writer in one of our journals recently remarked that 
the history of the development of modern poetical style 
remains to be written. It is here our business simply 
to treat that style as we find it in our best poets. 

§ 2. TROPES. 

This turning out of the beaten track of language is 
confined to the meaning, and does not concern the 
form and order of words. The poet wishes to put in a 
vivid, palpable way some thought or idea which he has 
in his mind. To express this vividly and at the same 
time beautifully, — for beauty, harmony, is the object 
of all art, — he chooses some picture that shall at once 






STYLE. 89 

interpret the thought and also in itself satisfy our in- 
stinct for beauty. Instead of saying that a pleasant 
idea comes without labor into his mind, the poet turns 
aside from these colorless words and gives us a picture : — 

" There flutters up a happy thought, 
Self-balanced on a joyous wing" 

Or take the following stanza of Whittier's Ic/iabod, 
and see how, in his intense feeling, the poet uses the 
vivid trope rather than the literal symbol of thought : — 

" O dumb be passion^ stormy rage, 
When he who might 
Have lighted up and led his age, 
Falls back in night. " 

That is, it is best to endure in silence the sorrow and 
shame that one feels when a great man betrays his 
trust. Even in this prose rendering, we slip into a 
trope — but it is not vivid and concrete, as in the poem. 
The more intense, the more true to nature a concrete 
trope is, the stronger its poetical effect. Thus Dante, 
Inferno > 33, — " I did not weep, / was so turned to stone 
within!' The terrible fidelity of this trope is what gives 
it force. A moment's reflection will show how this 
instinct runs through all speech. "Hard" or "soft" 
heart; "sweet" disposition — and so on; — are tropes 
that are no longer thought of as tropes. In this way, 
all language has its poetical elements ; and it has been 
said that every word was at its beginning a poem. 
Brush off the dust of common use, and the poetry of 
any word whose etymology we kno.w will at once flash 
out. Poetry uses tropes consciously, boldly, and syste- 
matically ; restores, as far as it can, color and freshness 



go POETICS. 

to language, and vividness to expression. The rich array 
of pictures satisfies the intellectual eye, just as the 
harmony and music of metre satisfy the ear. When 
these combine in interpreting a noble or beautiful idea, 
we have poetry. Poetical style, poetical language, 
under the control of metrical law, is therefore the 
material in which the poet expresses himself. It is not 
a mere ornament. It is the material — useless without 
a vivifying idea, but none the less necessary to that 
idea. This is why we lay such stress on the imagina- 
tion as chief gift of the poet. He puts thought into 
images or pictures. 

The Trope is a substitution of one thing for another, 
on the basis 

A. Of Resemblance ; which may be 

i. Assumed. 

2. Implied. 

3. Stated, — 

a. Stated positively. 

b. " negatively. 

e. in degrees of comparison. 

B. Of Connexion ; which may be 

1. Logical. 

2. Mathematical. 

C. Of Contrast. 

§ 3. THE METAPHOR. 

The trope based on likeness or resemblance is ex- 
tremely common. Where this likeness is assumed, and 
the picture or comparison is put directly in place of the 
thing itself, we have what is commonly known as the 



STYLE. 9? 

metaphor. We do not state the resemblance of x to y ; 
we simply assume it, and give x in terms of y. Hence 
metaphor, from the Greek word meaning " transfer." 
All speech, as we saw, is based on metaphor. It is the 
first of all tropes. — It is important to remember that 
in the metaphor the comparison and thing compared are 
not both named, but only the former. When both are 
named, we have either the implied or the stated simile. 

The metaphor may deal with objects ; — may give 
one in terms of another, and so gain in vividness of 
expression. Instead of literal " sun," Shakspere says 
"the eye of heaven " ; the likeness of the heavens to a 
human countenance, the sun to a human eye, is first 
assumed, and then the more vivid expression is used 
for the literal. So in Merch. of Ven. the stars are 
called "blessed candles of the night." Further: "a 
forest huge of spears " (Milton) ; " the surge of swords " 
(Swinburne); "Each in his narrow cell forever laid" 
(Gray). 

The metaphor may deal with a process or a situation. 
In Keats' Eve of St. Agnes, the taper's "little smoke 
in pallid moonshine died." "Died" is far more vivid 
than "went out." This sort of metaphor is very com- 
mon in descriptive and narrative poetry. Milton's 
Satan " throws his swift flight in many an aery wheel " ; 
the gates of Hell do not simply give a jarring noise, 
but "grate harsh thunder." In description of nature, 
personification (see below) plays a very important part ; 
but metaphor is used in abundance. Thus the dawn, 
sunset, etc., have given rise to a number of metaphors, — 

" . . . the golden Orientall gate 

Of greatest heaven gan to open faire." — Spenser. 



9£ POETICS. 

Wordsworth makes the sun "bathe the world in 
light." Moonlight is u silver " ; rays of light — as in 
Shelley's Skylark — are " arrows." 

The commonest metaphors, however, are where 
physical processes in man are likened to those of the 
outer world. This class is common in the drama and 
in lyric poetry. "The tackle of my heart," cries King 
John, "is crack'd and burnt." Wordsworth says: — 

" The good die first, 
And they whose hearts are dry as summer's dust 
Burn to the socket." 

Macbeth laments that his 

" May of life 
Is fallen into the sear and yellow leaf; " 

and in Lear Kent says: "I have years on my back 
forty-eight." Shakspere's famous passage about sleep 
(Macb. ii. 2) has a number of metaphors, combined in 
the figure of Variation, already described as common 
in our old poetry. Cf. further his beautiful Sonnet (73) 
" That time of year thou mayst in me behold." 

Again, Mental Processes may be so treated. Thus 
for " royal anger and ambition," we have the metaphor 
in King John : — 

" Ha, majesty, how high thy glory towers, 
When the rich blood of kings is set on fire." 

Or Macb. v. 3 : — 

" Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased ; 
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow ; 
Raze out the written troubles of the brain ; 
And, with some sweet, oblivious antidote, 
Cleanse the stufPd bosom of that perilous stuff 
Which weighs upon the heart?' 1 



STYLE. 



93 



To use the processes of the outer world to describe 
our feelings ; to attribute to natural objects a person- 
ality like our own : — these are the chief factors of poet- 
ical style. The latter is known as personification, and 
though a metaphor, deserves separate treatment. 

In like manner with the above metaphors, we may 
render abstract by concrete. This is unconsciously done 
whenever we speak of abstract ideas, for they can be 
expressed only by concrete words : such a case is the 
word attention, which passes as abstract, but really 
means a stretching toward. Or we may do it half con- 
sciously, as in the expressions "deep thought," " cool 
determination.' ' But in poetry we do it consciously, as 
in the following : — 

" The very head and front of my offending. " — Othello. 

" Shake patiently my great affliction off." — Lear. 

" Mine eternal jewel {i.e. his soul) 
Given unto the common enemy of man. n — Macbeth. 

Sometimes we express an abstract term by another 
such term, but fresher, less used. Thus, instead of say- 
ing "O ruined man!" we may say (Lea?) "O ruined 
piece of nature /" So Shakspere in his 87th sonnet, 
instead of the common terms "sympathy," "claims of 
affection," puts it all in legal phrase : — "the charter of 
thy worth," "bonds," "patent," and so on. Tennyson 
asks sleep if it have " such credit with the soul" as to 
make present the past. 

Concrete expressed by abstract is a rare metaphor. 
There are some classical imitations. Gray says : — 

"Now the rich stream of music winds along, . . . 
. . .Through verdant vales and Ceres 1 golden reign. V 



94 POETICS. 

He means the fields over which Ceres' reign extends. 
Milton calls Scipio " the height of Rome " {Par. Lost, 

9- 43). 

In the old poem of Exodus, wrongly attributed to 
Caedmon, we have a strikingly bold use of this meta- 
phor. Speaking of the Red Sea in storm, after the 
drowning of the Egyptians, the poet says : " the mighti- 
est of sea-deaths lash'd the sky." That is, "the sea, 
which had slain the Egyptians, rose to the clouds." 
This trope may also be referred to Metonymy (cf below). 

§ 4. THE ABUSE OF METAPHORS. 

The rhetoricians call the bad use of metaphors Cata- 
chresis. But we cannot lay down too positive a law. 
Dante says that as he descended into the second, circle 
of hell, " he came into a place mute of all light, which 
bellows as the sea does in a tempest." 2 Now, at first 
glance, we say light cannot be "mute"; nor, again, 
can a mute place "bellow." But the vividness of the 
trope, its splendid effect, " gloriously offend." It pic- 
tures admirably the way in which that desolation and 
that darkness worked upon the poet. Furthermore, we 
may refer to another passage in Dante where the beast 
drives him back dove il sol tace, — " where the sun is 
silent;" and we remember the old idea that approach- 
ing light — say of dawn — makes a great tumult. Again, 
Hamlet's query whether " to take arms against a sea of 
troubles " is blamed as mixed metaphor, because we do 
not arm ourselves against the sea. But how well the 
metaphor pictures the troubles rushing upon the speaker 
from all sides. It would be more correct, but infinitely 

1 Longfellow's translation. 



STYLE. 95 

less vivid, to use a simile in the second case, and say 
"to take arms against troubles that rush upon me as a 
sea." But, after all, it is a very safe and useful rule that 
one should not "mix" metaphors. The usual example 
quoted for warning is the couplet : — 

" I bridle in my struggling muse with pain, 
That longs to launch into a nobler strain." 

This assumes a likeness of the main object to objects 
that are themselves mutually incongruous. The pic- 
ture is confused. We can hardly justify Hamlet's 
" fruitful river of the eye" for "tears." 

Metaphor can be so constant as to be wearisome. 
We tire of a rapid and ceaseless succession of pictures. 
George Chapman, for example, though a vigorous poet, 
is so full of "conceits" as to tire the reader and mar 
the general effect of the play in which they occur. 
Shakspere often yielded to the intense desire felt by 
his age for this piling up of metaphors, and especially 
of far-fetched ones ; but he understood the power of 
simple vigor. 

Goldsmith's distinction is sound, — "between those 
metaphors which rise glowing from the heart, and 
those cold conceits which are engendered in the 
fancy." 

Again, we may have disgusting details, or ridiculous 
associations. Dryden, when a young man, wrote about 
a nobleman who had died of the small-pox : — 

" Each little pimple had a tear in it 

To wail the fault its rising did commit.'" 

Crashaw, the religious poet of the Seventeenth Cen- 
tury, in a poem on Mary Magdalen, speaks of Christ as 



g6 poetics. 

" Followed by two faithful fountains, 
Two walking baths, two weeping motions, 
Portable and compendious oceans.'' 1 

This is the abuse of the conceit. On lighter themes 
the conceit can be happily employed, as Carew and 
Herrick have shown us. 

Finally, as is well known, the poet should never 
mingle metaphorical with literal ; that is, his image or 
picture should be complete as far as it goes. 

§ 5. PERSONIFICATION. 

As we saw, the two chief factors of poetical style are 
(1) the Metaphor, which imposes nature on personality, 
i.e. describes human action in terms of a natural pro- 
Cess, as " his life ebbed away " ; and (2) Personification, 
which imposes personality on nature. 

In the metaphor we turn back to the vivid and con- 
crete force of early language, which was made up of 
pictures. In personification we turn back to the early 
belief of mankind, a belief that saw personal act and 
motive in every occurrence of nature. Personification 
works also in the mental world. Here, too, we restore 
the old belief, which was full of visions and spiritual 
voices. A dream was a person, a messenger from the 
gods : cf. the dream sent to Agamemnon, in the Iliad. 
In our modern poetry, we can treat the expression 
"misfortune overtook him " as a personification. With 
our forefathers, however, fate (Wyrd) was a real being : 
she seized a man unawares. Even a sudden thought 
was a message from the gods, then a messenger ; " it 

1 This same poet, however, made the line about Christ's first miracle : 
"The conscious water saw her God., and blushed." 



STYLE. 97 

ran into his mind," says the singer of Beowulf, speaking 
of a sudden determination of King Hrothgar, " it rait 
into his mind to build a banquet-hall." Even weapons, 
utensils, etc., were personified. The warrior chid his 
sword for refusing, at a critical moment, to " bite." 
But the great field for early personification was nature 
and its processes. Then the poet believed, now he 
assumes, animism in nature. This belief was the main- 
spring of mythology ; the assumption is the mainspring 
of poetry. Every right-minded child, even nowadays, 
believes devoutly in that once-upon-a-time when trees 
and beasts and birds, and even pots and pans, could talk. 
Primitive mankind made its deities of the personifica- 
tions that lay nearest to it. (Grimm.) Violent forces 
of nature were made gods ; mild and loving powers, 
goddesses. Air and fire — Woden, the god of rushing 
wind, the storm-god ; and the fire-god, the devourer — 
these were, of course, masculine ; but earth and water 
were goddesses. Feminine, too, were what we now call 
the " abstractions," — Love, Truth, Virtue, Fortune. 
Other abstractions were Wish, Hunger : but the femi- 
nine outnumber the masculine. So we see that man's 
early worship, like man's early language, was an uncon- 
scious poetry. The task of modern poets is to restore 
not only the semblance, but also the spirit of this old 
poetry, and as far as possible make the fields and woods, 
the outer world, even thoughts and fancies of the inner 
wonld as well, personal and animated. On a large scale 
this is done by such poems as Wordsworth's Ode, where 
the " meanest flower that blows " has a sympathetic 
message ; on a smaller scale it is done by that trope 
which we call personification. 



98 POETICS. 

This personification may be (1) Imperfect. We are 
told, the voice of Abel's blood cried from the ground. 
That is an imperfect personification ; for we cannot 
picture any person. We simply have a human attribute 
joined to the blood ; speech is lent to it, but not a full 
personality. 

This attribute may be either physical (as above) or 
mental. The vassals of Scyld lay their lord (Beo. 35) 
"in the lap of the ship." Further (physical) examples 
are: "bosom of the deep" (Milton) ; "wide cheeks of 
the air" (Shaks. Coriol.) ; "Mountains on whose bar- 
ren breast the laboring clouds do often rest" (Milton, 
U AIL). So in common speech we use personal at- 
tributes like back, foot, face, head, etc., as applied to 
objects. But often we can go directly to mythology in 
these tropes and need assume no deliberate personifica- 
tion. Thus, take Lear's "Blow, winds, and crack your 
cheeks ! " In the uncouth pictures of the Sachsenspie- 
gel, the oldest German book of custom and law — com- 
posed about 1200 a.d. — the winds are represented by 
faces or heads with puffed cheeks, as if blowing furi- 
ously. And this notion of the winds goes back to 
remotest times ; so that the expression in Lear is a bit 
of fossil mythology. On the contrary, there is no trace 
of the old weapon-personification in the sarcastic remark 
of Gloster when he has slain the King (3 Hen. VI. 
v. 6),— 

" See how my sword weeps for the poor king^ death." . 

A close approach is made to full personification 'in 

King John , 1 1. 1 : — 

" That pale, that white-faced shore, 
Whose foot spurns back the oceans roaring tide." 






STYLE. 99 

The attribute may, however, be not physical, but 
mental. Exquisite is the passage in Spenser's Epitha- 

lamion : — 

"Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, 
Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes, 
And bless eth her with his two happy hands, 
How the red roses flush up in her cheekes." 

The " happy hands " is a most happy touch. Further 
(Rom. and Jul. in. 5) : — 

" Look, love, what envious streaks 
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east." 

The white rose of York (1 Hen. VI: 11. 4) is " this pale 
and angry rose." 

Further, this imperfect personification may be applied 
to abstractions. In the passage (Macb. v. 5) — 

' ' To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day," — 

we hardly get the picture of a person — only a personal 
attribute, which illustrates the slow course of time. 
But the speaker immediately proceeds to a personifica- 
tion that is nearer completeness : — 

1 ' And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
The way to dusty death.''' 

Imperfect, too, is the personification in Keats' line, — 

" And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old" 

and in Pope's, — 

" At every word a reputation dies." 

Secondly, we have Perfect Personification, — and 
this, again, may be of concrete objects or of abstract 
ideas. In concrete objects we have the vast range of 



IOO POETICS. 

nature. Often a complete personification is undesir- 
able. Milton is especially happy in his description of 
natural forces : he gives touches of personality here 
and there, but leaves a vagueness about the picture 
that adds greatly to its power. Thus P. L. I. 174 ff. : — 

..." and the thunder, 
Wing'd with red lightning and impetuous rage, 
Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now 
To bellow through the vast and boundless deep." 

Still more powerful is this vagueness in the picture 
of Superstition in Lucretius (I. 62 ff.) : — 

" humana . . . cum vita jaceret 
in terris oppressa gravi sub religione 
quae caput a cceli regionibus ostendebat." 

Superstition (religio), with her foot upon mortals, 
shows nevertheless her head from among the clouds of 
heaven. The suggestion of indefinite vastness and 
power is very strong. — But in most cases we demand 
from the poet a full and satisfying personification. We 
have imperfect, uncertain personification in the chang- 
ing epithets applied to the sun by Shakspere in his 33d 
Sonnet. There is no clear-cut personality: it shifts — 
is now a monarch, now a lover, now an alchemist. 
More distinct is the 7th Sonnet, — " Lo in the orient 
when the gracious light." But the fullest satisfaction 
is given by those passages in which the old mythology 
flashes forth : — 

" Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day 
Stands tiptoe on the inisty mountain-tops ." 

— Rom. &* Jul. in. 5. 
" But look, the morn in russet 7nantle clad, 
Walks o^er the dew of yon high eastern hilly 

— Hamlet, 1. 1. 






STYLE. IOI 

" When the gray-hooded Even, 
Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, 
Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus 1 wain." 

— Milton, Comus. 
Further, cf. Sidney's sonnet : — 

" With how sad steps, O moon, thou climbst the skies ! " 

The blithe young morning peering over the hills, the 
sober-robed evening, the wandering moon, — all are 
mythological. 

So in our oldest poetry. In the Genesis (called the 
first book of " Caedmon ") we have such phrases as " In 
its (the evening's) footsteps ran and pressed the gloomy 
shadow," or " they saw the light stride away." — Finally 
we must add to these natural personifications our 
inheritance from the classic literatures. Greek and 
Roman mythology has left us a countless host of such 
tropes. — Modern poets should use these with great 
caution ; it is better to make fresh tropes. Thus Pope 
and his school are never tired of Sol and Phoebus and 
Luna. Keats, with all his love for classic beauty, 
catches the spirit and neglects the letter — as in his 

Isabella : — 

" Ere the hot sun count 
His dewy rosary on the eglantine,'" 

which also contains a fine metaphor. 

Finally, we have complete personification of abstract 
ideas. In early times, imagination — the power to 
picture a definite object — was much stronger than the 
intellectual power of grouping classes and qualities, and 
forming abstract ideas. Instead of scientific classifica- 
tion of will and thought and feeling, early psychology 
knew only a changing inner world whose processes it 



102 POETICS. 

pictured in concrete terms (metaphor) and whose 
powers it personified. We revive this latter instinct 
when we say with Lear : " Down, climbing Sorrow ! " 
Further, such an abstraction as our word Fate (=that 
which is spoken, irrevocable) was to our forefathers, 
under another name, the goddess of destiny, Wyrd 
(=" accomplished," "finished"). " Wyrd wove me this," 
cries the hero ; that is, " here is my fate." In the Old- 
Saxon (not Anglo-Saxon) poetical version of the gospel, 
the He Handy Christ says to Judas : " Thy Wyrd stands 
near thee." — Even such an abstract idea as hunger 
was personified, and was not felt as at all abstract. 
This is well shown by a passage in the Genesis : — 

" When from thy heart hunger or wolf 
Soul and sorrow at the same time tears." 

Observe the co-ordination of abstract " hunger " and 
concrete "wolf." In modern poetry we perform the 
process consciously, not in a mythological belief : — 
" Methinks it were an easy leap 
To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon, 
Or dive into the bottom of the deep . . . 
. . . And pluck up drowned honour by the locks] 
So he that doth redeem her thence, might wear, 
Without corrival, all her dignities.'" — i Hen. TV. I. 3. 

Examples lie everywhere, Take all of Collins' Ode 
to the Passions. Further : — 

" Slander, whose whisper . . ." — Hamlet. 
" Strong War sets hand to the scythe, and the furrows take fire 
from his feet." — Swinburne, Erechtheus. 

§ 6. ALLEGORY. 
Allegory, as we know, is " where more is meant than 
meets the ear " — or eye. One thinks immediately of 






STYLE. IO3 

Gulliver s Travels, of the Pilgrim's Progress, or of the 
Faery Queene. That is in subject-matter. But in point 
of style, allegory is a sustained metaphor, one extended 
into several phrases or clauses, so that we do not think 
so much of the object as of the illustration. Often, how- 
ever, abruptness makes up for length. Hamlet, think- 
ing of his counter-plot against the king (111. 4), says : — 

" For 'tis the sport to have the enginer 

Hoist with his own petar : and 't shall go hard, 
But I will delve one yard below their mines 
And blow them at the moon." 

Cf Jul. Cces. 11. i : — 

" 'tis a common proof 
That lowliness is young ambition's ladder," &c. 

Imperfect allegory goes not quite so far away from 
the object. King Philip points to Arthur {King Jo hi, 
11. 1), and says : — 

" Look here upon thy brother Geffrey's face ; — 
These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his ; 
This little abstract doth contain that large 
Which died in Geffrey ; and the hand of time 
Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume." 

Sometimes the allegory is, for the sake of clearness, 
introduced or ended by a simile (cf below) ; thus in the 
well-known Epitaph in Croyland Abbey : — 

" Man's life is like unto a winter's day. 
Some break their fast, and so depart away. 
Others stay dinner, then depart full-fed. 
The longest age but sups and goes to bed." 

There is a finely sustained allegory near the end of 
Cowper's Lines on the Receipt of my Mother s Picture, 



104 POETICS. 

The seasons furnish abundant occasion for allegory. 
Out of many examples, we instance Clough's No More 
— " My wind has turned to bitter north, etc." Further, 
instead of a prolonged metaphor, allegory may be a 
prolonged personification. Milton describes the peace 
prevailing on the earth at Christ's nativity, in an alle- 
gorical way : — 

" But he her fears to cease, 
Sent down the meek-eyM Peace, etc." 

A beautiful allegory is contained in the 8oth Psalm. 
In fact, metaphor slips easily into allegory. Naive is 
Chaucer's explanation at the beginning of Book n. of 
Troylus and Cryseyde : — 

' ' Out of these blake wawes for to saylle, 

O wynde, O wynde, the weder gynneth to clere ; 
For in this see the boot hath swiche travaylle 
Of my connynge, that unneth I it stere : 
This see clepe I the te7npestuons mater e 
Of desespeyre, that Troylus was inne." . . . 

Like the simile, allegory was introduced into our 
poetry at a very early date. In the Anglo-Saxon Phy- 
siologus (cf. Ch. I. § iv.), in the poem " Christ " (Grein's 
Bibliotkek), and in other old poems, it often occurs. 
But it is an importation from classic and sacred writ- 
ings, and is not native to our oldest literature. 

§ 7. THE SIMILE — IMPLIED. 

The trope based on resemblance of two objects may 
assume that resemblance, as in metaphor, personifica- 
tion, allegory: in metaphor, the ship " ploughs the 
sea." We assume that the action of a ship resembles 
the action of a plough. But when we name the action 



STYLE. IO5 

of the ship, and then compare it to the action of the 
plough, we have simile. The likeness may be stated 
frankly, or it may be implied. Most writers on poetics 
place the implied simile under the head of metaphor. 
Thus Nichol (Eng. Comp.) says that " He fought like a 
lion " is simile ; " He was a lion in fight " is metaphor. 
Surely the latter is implied simile. Every one under- 
stands by "was" just about what one understands by 
"was like." The idea of comparison and likeness is 
present in both cases. But the metaphor boldly ex- 
presses one thing in terms of another, does not place the 
two objects before the mind. A simile, then, is where 
two objects are presented to the mind for comparison. 

An implied simile is not a metaphor, and yet is 
bolder than the stated simile. It may be implied in 
several ways. Thus, by apposition : — 

" The noble sister of Publicola, 
The moon of Rome. 11 — CorioL v. 3. 

" And those eyes, the break of day, 
Lights that do mislead the morn. 11 — M. for M. iv. 1. 

" Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, 
Tall oaks. 11 — Keats, Hyperion. 

"Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal 
The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne. 11 

— Rich. IT. v. 1. 

A splendid succession of comparisons, too long to 
quote, is the eulogy of England that Shakspere puts 
into the mouth of the dying Gaunt {Rick. II. 11. 1) ; 
one is, — "this precious stone set in the silver sea." 

The simile may be implied by a dependent genitive 
case : " The dew of sleep " ; "The milk of human kind- 
ness"; "The nunnery of your chaste breast." Here 



106 POETICS. 

note particularly that the two nouns are co-ordinates. 
" Dew" and " sleep " are co-ordinate, of equal value, — 
comparison and compared. Different would be the case 
with such an expression as — "the quiet of sleep," 
where " quiet " is simply a part or quality of " sleep." 
Further cf. " In cradle of Jhe rude imperious surge" 
(2 Hen. IV. in. 1). 

More distant is the implying by means of adjectives : 
" Passionate, pale, cold face, star-sweet on a gloom pro- 
found" (Tennyson, Maud) ; " Golden sleep"; " This 
working-day world." — There are many other ways of 
implying likeness. For instance (Merck, of Ven. 11. 5), 
"But stop my house's ears — I mean my casements." 
Then, approaching the stated simile, we have the con- 
nection of comparison and compared by the "copula" 

is or are : — 

" He is the brooch indeed 
And gem of all the nations. 1 ' — Hamlet. 
" A jewel in a ten times barred-up chest 

Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.'" — Rich. II. 
" Love is a sickness full of woes.' 1 ■ — S. Daniel. 

Other equivalents of is or are may be mentioned 
besides the one from Merck, of Ven. just given : — 

" Then her voice's music, — call it 
The well's bubbling, the bird's warble." — R. Browning. 
" The sullen passage of thy weary steps 
Esteem a foil, wherein thou art to set 
The precious jewel of thy home-return." 

— Rich. II 1. 6. 

With a gesture Cleopatra implies the comparison, as 
she points to the asp on her bosom, and asks (A. and C. 

v. 2) : — 

" Dost thou not see my baby at my breast, 
That sucks the nurse asleep ? " 



STYLE. TO/ 

§8. THE SIMILE — STATED. 

This marks the extreme stage of the trope based on 
likeness. In development, the metaphor precedes the 
simile. The former can rest on a picturesque confu- 
sion of names x — as in calling the bird's nest his 
" house" : so Tennyson, speaking of the vanished 
inmate of a sea-shell, asks : " Did he stand at the dia- 
mond door of his house?" Our early poetry is full of 
this metaphor; it calls the sky " the people-7'00/*," the 
sea " foamy fields" and so on. All that was required 
was a common quality, and the immediate substitution 
of one object for another. Hence a great confusion, 
"mixing" of metaphors, as when the "mouth" (se. 
door) of the ark is "locked." Much more art, more 
balance, is needed to pause in the current of poetry and 
hold two objects apart, painting carefully the details of 
the comparison, then returning to the main subject and 
proceeding quietly with the interrupted narration. This 
demands a higher poetic faculty, a more analytic, self- 
contained faculty. Hence the superiority, in point of 
style, of the Homeric poems over our old English epos. 
The former are famous for their sustained similes ; the 
latter has scarcely a simile worthy of the name, setting 
aside, of course, the later poems, where classical and 
sacred models now begin to exert their influence. We 
are, therefore, not surprised to learn that Lessing, the 
experienced man of letters and brilliant critic, disliked, 
as a poet, the metaphor, and used in preference the sim- * 

1 Goldsmith (" Essay on the Use of Metaphors ") calls metaphor "a kind 
of magical coat by which the same idea assumes a thousand different 
appearances." 



108 POETICS. 

ile. Hegel notes that the simile is essentially oriental, 
the metaphor occidental. The simile came into our 
literature through the influence of Latin models and the 
love of sacred literature for allegory. The Bible is 
very fond of similes : " As the hart panteth after the 
water-brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God ! " 
But our primitive poetry ventured, at the best, only 
on such a timid flight as when it says that the ship 
glides over the water "most like a bird" {fugle gelicost). 
This fact, that the simile stands on a higher plane of 
poetical development than the metaphor, must be borne 
in mind when one is told that the metaphor is a " con- 
densed " simile. It is so logically ; not, however } chron- 
ologically. 

The simile may be stated positively : — 

" Like the winds in summer sighing, 
Her voice is low and sweet.'" 

" Ponderous syllables, like sullen waves 
In the half-glutted hollows of reef-rocks." — Keats. 

" Her feet beneath her petticoat, 
Like little mice, stole in and out, 

As if they feared the light." — Suckling. 

The simile, being a formal comparison, should not 
state the familiar and obvious. The poet must give us 
an unexpected, yet fit and beautiful comparison. In 
general effect, the two things compared should be as 
unlike as possible, so that the one common trait shall 
gain in intensity from the general contrast. This is 
finely brought out in a passage of Browning's Para- 
celsus : —m 

" Over the waters in the vaporous west 
The sun goes down as in a sphere of gold, 



STYLE. IO9 

Behind the outstretched city, which between, 
With all that length of domes and minarets, 
Athwart the splendor, black and crooked runs 
Like a Turk verse along a sci7netar" 

See, too, the deposed Richard's famous simile of the 
well and buckets, Rich. II. iv. 1. 

The simile may be stated as a negative, or in degrees 
of comparison. This adds emphasis : — 

" The sea enraged is not half so deaf, 
. . . . as we to keep this city." 

— King John, 11. 2. 

" O Spartan dog, 
More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea ! " 

— Othello, v. 2. 

" That she may feel 
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is 
To have a thankless child." — Lear, 11. 4. 

The simile best fits the stately motion of epic poetry. 
A short simile is used with great effect in lyric poetry, 
or the drama ; but when it is sustained and carried into 
detail, it is out of place in these, and belongs to the 
epic. So we find the famous Homeric similes of a most 
elaborate finish ; cf. that at the end of the eighth book 
of the Iliad. In English, Milton has best followed this 
path. The fallen angels stand (P. L. 1. 612 ff.) — 

"Their glory withered. As when Heaven's fire 
Hath scath'd the forest oaks, or mountain pines, 
With singed top their stately growth though bare 
Stands on the blasted heath.'" 

More like the Homeric simile and longer — too long- 
to quote — are such as that (P. L. in.) where Satan, as 
he looks down on the world, is compared to a military 



HO POETICS. 

scout. The Sonnet often makes an elaborate simile in 
its octave, then in the sestette draws the moral or shows 
the application. So, too, the Epigram, as in the stanza 
by Waller, given below. 

It is to be remembered that a mere instance is not 

a simile : — 

" Thais led the way 
To light him to his prey, 
And like another Helen, fir'd another Troy" 

Nevertheless, the simile is often combined with Allu- 
sion. Thus the poet takes for granted our knowledge 
of classical mythology when he says that Portia's 

" Sunny locks 
Hang on her temples like a golden fleece ; 
Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand,. 
And many Jasons come in search of her."" 

The simile may be stated in words equivalent to 

"like " or "as": — 

"It were all one 
That I should love a bright particular star, 
And think to wed it, he is so above me." 

— All's Well 
Or take Wallers conceit : — 

' ' The eagle's fate and mine are one, 

Which on the shaft that saw him die, 
Espied a feather of his own 
Wherewith he wont to soar so high." 



The great similes of classic poetry find frequent imi- 
tation. Thus we may trace one simile (of dead leaves 
falling in frosty weather) from Chaucer {Troilus, 4. 29) 
back to Dante {Inferno, 3. 112), and from him to Vergil 
{sEn. 6. 309). 



STYLE. 1 1 I 

§ 9. TROPES OF CONNEXION. 

One expression is here used for another on the basis 
not of resemblance, but of connexion, or association. In 
the former (resemblance), two things may be sundered 
in space and in thought ; yet a common quality, a like- 
ness in one point, may allow one to be used for the 
other : e.g., "her roses " for "her cheeks/' because both 
are red, or "rosy." But when we say : "the bottle will 
be his death," we see no likeness between what we say 
and what we mean (the liquor) ; but we do see a con- 
nexion. The two are associated in space as containing 
and contained : therefore we use 'one for the other. 
Connexion in space is sometimes called mathematical ; 
connexion in thought, logical. 

When one thing is put for another on account of 
connexion in space, we have the trope called Synec- 
doche ; the word means to understand one thing by 
another. It is mainly based on the relation of whole to 
parts. Thus a part is taken for the whole. 

' ' That cursed head 
Whose wicked deed." — Hamlet. 

Here " man " is meant. 

" Cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply 
The sampler. " — Comics. 

In the next example, a singular proper noun expresses 
the collective idea of " nation " ; note the plural pro- 
noun : — 

" The Sftaiiiard, tied by blood and favour to her, 
Must now confess, if they have any goodness,' 1 etc. 

— Hen. VIII. 11. 2. 



112 POETICS. 

A favorite use of this trope among our Germanic 
forefathers was to take some striking part of an action 
and use it instead of the general expression. Instead 
of saying "they went ashore," the poet of Beowulf puts 
it thus : "They bore their armor to the strand." The 
vividness of the picture is much increased. A fine 
modern use of this is in Marc Antony's famous speech 
about Brutus and the others "whose daggers have 
stabbed Ccesar" How infinitely stronger this is than 
" murdered," any one can see. So our forefathers did 
not simply •" sail " ; they " drove the keel over the sea- 
street." 

Similar to this trope is Distribution. Instead of 
simply naming the whole action or thing, one part after 
the other is named in detail. Instead of "They shall 
nevermore come to their homes at evening," the poet 
says : — - 

" For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knee, the envied kiss to share." 

See also the ghost's picture of Hamlet's abhorrence 
at the tale that might be told, — 

" whose lightest word 
Would harrow up thy soul," etc. — Hamlet, I. 5. 

Another similar trope, known as Periphrase, puts a 
certain prominent habit for the thing or person 
meant : — 

" Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk 
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep." 

— Par. Lost, 5. 200 f. 



STYLE. 113 

"The filmy shapes 
That haunt the dusk, with ermine capes 
And woolly breasts and beaded eyes." 

— Tennyson, /;/ Mem. 
" Where sailors gang to fish for cod " = Newfoundland. 

— Burns, Twa Dogs. 

The above substituted part for whole. We may also 
have whole for part. As a the Spaniard" was used for 
Spain, or all Spaniards, so conversely, the whole coun- 
try is used for its monarch. This is common in Shaks- 
pere. " Good Hamlet," says the queen, "let thine eye 
look like a friend on Denmark " — meaning Claudius, 
king of Denmark. So, too, in King John, Faulcon- 
bridge's pun, when Hubert lifts the dead body of 
Arthur, rightful heir to the crown : — 

" How easy dost thou take all England up ! " 

Material is used for thing made, 

" Sonorous inetal blowing martial sounds."" — Par. Lost, 1. 

Our old poets were fond of this trope : " curve-necked 
wood" for "ship"; "glee-beam," or "glee-wood," for 
"harf>"; and many more. Wolsey says {Hen. VIII.) he 
will "sleep in dull, cold marble." — "Not to taste that 
only tree," i.e. fruit of the tree (Par. Lost, 4. 423). 

Finally, one object is put for another connected with 
it in space. This is not like the case of part for whole, 
since the two objects are separable. Thus : — 

" Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy." 

" For the four winds blow in from every coast 
Renowned suitors." — Merck. Ven. 1. 1. 

Logical Association. — This relation is that of 
cause and effect, substance and attribute, and all such 



. 



114 POETICS. 

as are grasped, not by the senses, but by thought. 
The trope is called Metonymy, — change of names. In 
the Anglo-Saxon Genesis we are told that " God created 
for the false ones groans of hell" i.e. pains that would 
cause groans. " Savage clamor drowned both harp and 
voice" — sound of the harp {Par. Lost). "I know the 
hand" quibbles Lorenzo, when he sees Jessica's letter 
{Merck, of Ven.) : "in faith, 'tis a fair hand." So Hen. 

VIII. ii. 3: — 

" 'tis better to be lowly born 
Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief, 
And wear a golden sorrow.' 1 '' 

Prince Henry calls the crown a "polish'd perturba- 
tion," — cause of perturbation ; and the Dirge in Cymbe- 
line tells us that 

" The sceptre, learning, physic must 
All follow this and come to dust," 

a case of attribute and symbol instead of substance. 

Quality for person or thing : " To fawn on rage " 
— raging man {Rich. II v. 1). "Bondage is hoarse" 
{R. and Jf "When thus the angelic Virtue answered 
mild," = virtuous angel {Par. Lost). 

So, too, relations of time: — 

" Nor wanting is the brown October drawn 
Mature and perfect, from his dark retreat 
Of thirty years. v — Thomson. 

" And on her (sc. the table's) ample square from side to side 
All Autumn piled." — Par. Lost, 5. 391. 

§ IO. TROPES OF CONTRAST. 

In order to express something in a very forcible way, 
we can use a phrase entirely unexpected, making a 



m 



STYLE. I I 5 

sharp contrast with the literal statement. It does not 
deceive the reader ; it simply draws his attention, as 
by a violent gesture, to the real object. 

i. Hyperbole. — This trope (the word means to "cast 
beyond ") states a fact in words that we know to be 
impossible or extremely improbable. It shows that we 
must believe as far as we can in the direction indicated. 
" Countless houses " is a term by which we understand 
houses so numerous that it would be very difficult to 
count them, or would take a long time. The hyperbole 
is common in all speech. In poetry it is also abundant. 

" I was all ear, 
And took in strains that might create a soul 
Under the ribs of death." — Comus. 

" Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood 

Clean from my hand? No : this my hand will rather 
The multitudinous sea incarnadine, 
Making the green one red. 1 ' — Macbeth. 

" When I lie tangled in her hair 

And fettered to her eye." — Lovelace, To Althea. 

Hyperbole easily degenerates into rant. Shakspere 
intentionally ridicules this in Hamlet's wild speech at 
Ophelia's grave. Unintentionally, Lee, the tragedian, 
rants in his well-known passage : — 

" Pouring forth tears at such a lavish rate, 

That were the world on fire, they might drown 
The wrath of heaven, and quench the mighty ruin." 

This, as Blair remarks, is "mere bombast." But a 
slight step makes the trope forcible in Macbeth's ner- 
vous words : — 

" Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye 
That tears shall drown the wind."" 



I 1 6 POETICS. 

The hyperbole, as Lord Kaims pointed out, must not 
contain an absurd and contradictory statement. On 
this ground we condemn Pope's couplet : — 

" When first young Maro in his boundless mind 
A work f outlast immortal Rome designed." 

2. Litotes. — This is the opposite of the hyperbole. 
It understates. It stops far short of the actual truth. 
We feel the sharp contrast between the insufficient 
statement and the literal fact, and we hasten to do the 
subject right and justice. Thus Chaucer, describing a 
fat, jolly, rosy, ease-loving monk, says : — 

" He was not pale as a forpyned gost." 

So iii Par. Lost: — 

" Whereof in Hell 
Fame is not silent." 

3. Euphemism. — There are certain forms of religion 
in low stages of culture where the good gods are neg- 
lected — they will do no harm — and the bad' gods are 
overwhelmed with gifts and flattery. To these are 
given good names : the wish is father to the thought, — 
they are called good in hopes that they will be good. 
Even the Greek word Eumenides was given to the 
Furies, who, as ^Eschylus tells us, spoil the growing 
corn and fruit. There are similar names in our own 
mythology. Now this same spirit crops out in the dis- 
guise of modern Euphemism. This term (" speaking 
well of") is applied to that trope which, in contrast to 
the literal badness of the object, gives it a good name. 
In exalted style, we use Euphemism for harmful, de- 
structive things ; in familiar style, for disagreeable 
things. Especially is it used of death. 



STYLE. 117 

" How sleep the brave who sink to rest 

By all their country's wishes blest ! " — Collins. 

" After life's fitful fever, he sleeps well." — Macbeth. 

" Ah, Warwick, Montague hath breathed his -last." 

For the second case, in Hamlet (11. 1), instead of 
" intoxicated' - we have the polite "overtook." Cf. such 
colloquial and rather vulgar expressions as " appropri- 
ated" for plain " stolen." 

4. Irony. — - The contrast here consists in our believ- 
ing the opposite of what is said. Irony may be light, 
almost harmless, as in Sterne ; merciless and biting, as 
in Swift. Poetically it is often used': — 

" Go teach eternal wisdom how to rule." 

" Enjoy the thoughts that rise 
From disappointed avarice, 
From frustrated ambition." 

" Now get you to my lady's chamber," says Hamlet 
to Yorick's skull, "and tell her, let her paint an inch 
thick, to this favour she must come ; make her laugh 
at that" A most admirable example of compliment 
shading into irony, and irony into bitter sarcasm, is 
Marc Antony's speech about the " honorable men." 
Finally, we get the plain statement with the word 
"traitors." 

In epic poetry, irony alternates with direct abuse, — 
as in speeches of warriors about to fight. So Gabriel 
calls Satan " courageous chief." 



Il8 POETICS. 



CHAPTER V. — FIGURES. 

The terms Trope and Figure have often been con- 
fused. Metaphors are called "figurative" language, and 
Trope is often just as loosely understood. But the dis- 
tinction is useful and just. A trope deals with the 
expressions themselves ; a figure, with their relations 
and arrangement. 

Figures may be based on Repetition, on Contrast, or 
on Combination. 

§ I. FIGURES OF REPETITION. 

The repetition of certain relations of sounds is, as we 
shall see, the basis of metre ; there is also a harmony 
and poetic effect gained by repetition of words and 
phrases. 

i. Iteration. — Single words are repeated. This is 
very common in dirges and in passages expressive of 
deep emotion. The tendency is to dwell on one name 
or thought. Lycidas is very remarkable in this re- 
spect : — 

" For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 
Who would not weep for Lycidas ? " 

The poem is full of such iteration. 

So in Paradise Lost: " though fall'n on evil times, 
On evil times though fall'n and evil tongues. " The 
Strong passion and wonder of Hamlet find expression 
by dwelling on two words : — 



FIGURES. 119 

" Oh villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! 
My tables — meet it is I set it down 
That one may smile and smile and be a villain. ,, 

For sacred poetry, see the song of Deborah, Judges v. 
26-28. 

Without any reference to emotion, iteration is used 
for the harmony of verse. 

" Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet." 

" See golden days fruitful of golden deeds." 

Both are from Paradise Lost. Milton thoroughly 
understood such cadences and harmonies. More in- 
volved iteration is seen in the following : — 

" Increasing store with loss and loss with store." 

M Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide." 

Or George Puttenham's example : — 

" Much must he be beloved that loveth much ; 
Feare many must he needs, whom many feare." 

In these latter examples we find antithesis also. Cf. 
§ 3 of this chapter. 

2. This iteration may vary the application of the 
word. 

" Treason doth never prosper. What's the reason? 
If it doth prosper, none dare call it treason." 

" When thou hast done, thou hast not done ; 
For I have more." — Donne. 

" And every fair from fair sometimes declines." — Shakspere. 

" How beautiful, if sorrow had not made 

Sorrow more beautiful than beauty's self.' 1 — Keats. 



120 POETfCS. 

3. Finally, this becomes word-play. So Antony, 
when he looks upon the body of Caesar, cries out : — 

" Here wast thou bay'd, brave hart; 
Here didst thou fall. . . . 
O world ! thou wast the forest to this hart ; 
And this indeed, O world ! the heart of thee." 

Thence we come to the regular pun. The prince of 
pun-makers in verse is, of course, Thomas Hood. 
Where the pun is confined to one word, as is usual, it 
is not an example of repetition. But otherwise with 

" They went and told the sexton, 
And the sexton tolled the bell." 

4. Whole sentences are repeated. The arrangement 
and matter are generally the same, but the expression 
is slightly changed. This figure is called Parallelism. 
It is very common in the Bible and in our Anglo- 
Saxon poetry : — 

" The voice of the Lord is upon the waters; 
The God of glory thundereth. . . . 
. . . The voice of the Lord breaketh the cedars ; 
Yea, the Lord breaketh the cedars of Lebanon." 

In Anglo-Saxon poetry, this figure is combined with 
the trope of Variation. An example from Milton of 
Parallelism, though with order reversed for metrical 
reasons, is the beginning of the Morning Hymn [Par. 
Lost, 5. 153) : — 

" These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, 
Almighty, thine this universal frame, 
Thus wondrous fair," 



FIGURES. 121 

§ 2. FIGURES OF CONTRAST. 

Here the arrangement is different from the expected 
and ordinary arrangement. Hence, through surprise, a 
stronger impression. Thus, we usually speak of an 
absent person or thing in the third person. If we 
suddenly address it in the second person, as if it were 
present, we have Apostrophe. 

i. Apostrophe. — Literally, this means a turning away 
from something. Quintilian says its origin was in the 
custom of orators, pleading in court, who were wont to 
turn from the judge and suddenly address some one 
else. Cicero, as we know, was pleading for Ligarius, 
when unexpectedly he broke off his argument and 
turned to the accuser, who was present, saying : — " Quid 
enim, Tubero, tuus ille destrictus in acie Pharsalica 
gladius agebat ? " 

This stricter sort of apostrophe abounds in poetry. 

" Within a month, — 
Let me not think on 7 t — Frailty, thy name is woman — 
A little month,' 1 etc. 

In a wider sense, apostrophe is any case where an 
absent person or thing is addressed as if present. 
Banquo, in his soliloquy, turns to Macbeth as if the 
latter were present : — 

" Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all 
As the weird women promised ; and I fear 
Thou playd'st most foully for it" 

So Macbeth, about to murder Duncan, who sleeps in 
another room, hears the bell ring, and cries : — 

" Hear it not, Duncan ! " 



122 POETICS. 

The figure is used also of things : — 

" Hold, hold, my heart; 
And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, 
But bear me stiffly up." — Hamlet. 

2. Apostrophe was a change of person. We may 
also have a change of number. For singular, we have 
the plural. Such is the " royal ( we.' ' So the ordinary 
second-person plural is now used altogether for the 
older "thou." 

3. The change may be in tense. Present is used for 
past, — the historical present. Events are narrated as 
if taking place before the eye. 

" Behind the arras hearing something stir, 
H 1 whips out his rapier, cries 4 A rat, a rat ! ' 
And in this brainish apprehension, kills 
The unseen good old man.'" — Hamlet, iv. 1. 

This figure is effectually used in The Cotter s Satttrday 
Night of Burns. — Present may be used for future. So 
in ordinary talk : "I go away to-morrow." In poetry 
we have such pronounced examples as {Ham. v.) : — 

" Horatio, I a7n dead; 
Thou livest ; report me and my cause aright." 

4. The speaker describes an absent thing, not in the 
second person, indeed, as in apostrophe, but as if it were 
present, though the third person is retained. The 
speaker seems to see the thing. Hence the figure is 
called Vision. Famous are the stanzas in Childe Har- 
old, beginning 

" I see before me the gladiator lie." 

In Gray's Bard, in Pope's Messiah, are fine examples 
of continued Vision. Naturally, the figure is not re- 



FIGURES. 123 

stricted to what one sees. The poet looks upon the 
rows of muskets in an arsenal and " hears even now 
the infinite fierce chorus/' that has been sung in all 
ages by the voices of war. — In imperative form, this 
figure is very common. The Nativity Hymn affords 
an example : — 

" See how from far . . . the star-led wizards haste.' 1 

5. Instead of the simple order of words, as we natu- 
rally form any proposition, with subject, predicate, and 
so on, some other order is adopted. This is just as 
familiar to prose as to poetry. " Great is Diana of the 
Ephesians" is infinitely more forcible than "Diana of 
the Ephesians is great." 

But in poetry there is far greater freedom of inver- 
sion and involution than in prose. The imitators of 
Milton found it easy to make up a quasi Miltonic style, 
simply by scattering inverted constructions broadcast 
through the verses. But Milton could be simple and 
direct when there was need for naked force : — 

" He called so loud that all the hollow deep 
Of Hell resounded.'" 

On the other hand, take that description of the gate of 
lost paradise : — 

" With dreadful faces thronged and fiery arms. 1 ' 

In neither case can we change without infinite loss. 

There is one poetical inversion, however, that needs 
special notice. Besides such cases as Abbott {Shaksper. 
Gram. § 423) notices, e.g., "thy cause of distemper" for 
"the cause of thy distemper," we have inversions like 

" The fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silo it manliness of grief " 



124 POETICS, 

Goldsmith means " manliness of silent grief." So 
Tennyson's Princess moves to the window " Robed in 
the long night of her deep hair," i.e., " deep night of 
her long hair." When Milton speaks of " flowering 
odors " he means " odorous flowers " ; and a somewhat 
similar figure is, "The flowing gold of her loose tresses," 
unless we take it as implied simile. 

Shakspere is fond of this construction : cf. Son. 77 : 
"by thy dial's shady stealth" = stealthy shade. 

6. Almost touching the trope Hyperbole, is a figure 
in which the statement taken as literal grammatical 
construction is impossible, but in loose construction is 
possible and intelligible. 

" Adam, the goodliest man of men since born, 
His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve." 

— Par. Lost, 4. 323 f. 

" Of all men else I have avoided thee."— - Macbeth, v. 7. 

" So these two brothers with their murdered man 
Rode past fair Florence." — Keats, Isabella. 

In the last example, the meaning is ' the man whom 
they were about to murder.' This anticipation, or 
Prolepsis, can be a mere matter of grammar, not of 
sense. Thus in Byron's Giaour: — 

" These scenes, their story not unknown, 
Arise, and make again your own." 

Shakspere often used this figure : " What is infirm 
from your sound parts shall fly" (All's Well, 11. 1) ; 
what is infirm will fly, and the part thereby become 
sound. 

7. Instead of the kind of sentence that we expect, we 
find some other : as a question instead of a statement. 



FIGURES. 125 

"Hath not a Jew eyes," asks Shylock, "hath not a 
Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, pas- 
sions ?" This is stronger than the statement, " A Jew 
hath eyes," etc. 

" Am I not, am I not here alone? " — Tennyson, Maud. 

"Is it not monstrous that this player here 
But in a fiction," etc. — Hamlet. 

We expect an affirmative answer to these. Otherwise 

with 

" Lives there who loves his pain? " — Par. Lost, 4. 888. 

8. The Parenthesis is common eyerywhere. 

" For I this night 
(Such night till this I never passed) have dreamed, 
If dreamed," etc. — Par. Lost, 5. 30. 

9. Finally, the most abrupt contrast arises when the 
construction comes suddenly to an t end, is broken off 
violently, and a new sentence begins in a new direc- 
tion. The famous Vergilian example is where Neptune 
rebukes the winds, and begins to threaten, but leaves 
the threat unfinished : — 

" Ouos ego — sed motos praestat componere fluctus." 

" Ay me, I fondly dream ! 

Had ye been there — for what could that have done? " 

— Lycidas. 
" But her eyes — 

How could he see to do them?" 

— Merch. of Ven. ill. 2. 

§ 3. FIGURES OF COMBINATION. 

Here the effect is made by the arrangement and 
mutual relations of the different parts of the sentence. 



126 POETICS. 

There is no repetition ; there is no turning from the 
proper tense or number ; but the joining of the parts 
differs from that of common speech. 

i. Chief of these figures is Antithesis. Two expres- 
sions are placed in close relation, so that each throws 
the other into strong relief. Sometimes we have two 
verses ; sometimes the antithesis is shut in a single 
verse. In prose, the figure should be sparingly used ; 
a case of undue abundance is John Lyly's Enphues and 
his England '(1579) which riots in antithesis and allit- 
eration. But sparingly used, antithesis has a pleasant 
effect. Keats says (Endymion) he will 

" . . . Stammer where old Chaucer used to sing" 

" Have eyes to wonder but lack tongues to praise." 

— Shakspere, Sonnet. 

" And my large kingdom for a little grave." \ 

— Richard II. ill. 4. 

" His back was turned, but not his brightness hid." 

— Par. Lost, 3. 624. 

" Saw undelighted all delight." — Par. Lost, 4. 286. 

" New laws from him who reigns new minds may raise 
In us who serve." — Par. Lost, 5. 680. 

This figure was carried to excess in the formal poetry 
of Dryden and Pope. Still the theme may often excuse 
the figure. So in Pope's masterpiece : — 

" Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, 
If she inspire and he approve my lays." 

Pope is very fond of parallel constructions : — 

" Hang o^r the box and hover round the ring." 
" When music softens and when dancing fires." 




FIGURES. 127 

" On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore 
Which Jews might kiss and infidels adore." 

So Dr. Johnson : — 

" All Marlborough hoarded or all Villiers spent" 

Dryden : — 

" He had his wit. and they had his estate." 

Prior : — • 

" If 'tis not sense, at least 'tis Greek." 

" They never taste who always drink : 
They always talk who never think." 

So Swift and many other poets of 'the Eighteenth Cen- 
tury. 

Another use of the antithesis is to sharpen satire. 
It brings incongruous things together as if they were 
congruous. Pope : — 

" Forget her prayers or miss a masquerade." 
" Or lose her heart or necklace at a ball." 
Another use is to point a moral. Dryden : — 
" Resolved to ruin or to rule the state." 

" But wild ambition loves to slide, not stand, 
And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land." 

" He left not faction, but of that was left." 

The antithesis is much used in the Epigi'am : — 

" On parent's knees, a naked new-born child, 
Weeping thou sat'st, while all around thee smiled 
So live, that, sinking in thy long last sleep, 
Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee weep." 

A peculiar antithesis is the sneer of Richard after he 
has murdered the king : — 



128 POETICS. 

" What, will the aspiring blood of Lancaster 
Sink in the ground? I thought it would have mounted." 

— 3 Henry VI. v. 6. 

The antithesis generally brings out an opposition in 
the meaning — as in the foregoing examples. But 
there is a similar figure which brings out a likeness — a 
sort of parallel. Thus Chaucer : — 

" Up roos the sonne and up roos Emelye." 

" When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept." 

— Julius Ccesar. 

The great merit of the antithesis is the same as the 
merit of its chief masters, Dryden and Pope, — concise- 
ness and clearness. It presents an idea in brief but 
forcible expression. But its faults are also the faults 
of Pope and Dryden, — lack of naturalness, a tendency 
to labored manner, a striving after effect. In poor 
hands (imitators of Pope) it becomes intolerable. 

2. The antithesis is not necessarily a contradiction. 
But there is a figure (something like the hyperbole 
among tropes) where a seeming contradiction in terms 
brings out vividly the general idea. 

When the contradictory terms are brought sharply 
together, the figure is called Oxymoron ; when they are 
not so closely joined, Paradox. Keats is a poet fond of 
such figures : — 

" . . . and then there crept 
A little noiseless noise among the leaves 
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves" 

" A half-heard strain 
Full of sweet desolation, — bahny pain." 



FIGURES. 129 

To these striking examples we may add : — 

" O heavy lightness, serious vanity ! " 

— Romeo and yuliet, 1. 1. 
Chaucer : — 

" And smale fowles maken melodie 
That slepen alle night with open eye." 

Pope : — 

" And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake." 

Milton : — 

" By merit raised to that bad eminence." 
" With wanton heed and giddy cunning." 

Shirley : — 

" Upon death's purple altar now 
See where the victor-victim bleeds." 

Mrs. Browning : — 

" He denied 
Divinely the divine." 

Example of Paradox is : — 

" Stone walls do not a prison make, 
Nor iron bars a cage." — Lovelace. 

3. Climax and Anticlimax. — The great art in prose 
or verse is to leave on the reader's mind the most dis- 
tinct and sharp impression possible (cf. H. Spencer On 
the Philosophy of Style). To do this, great care must 
be exercised in the arrangement of thought and expres- 
sion. The most important part should, as a rule, come 
last, and thus leave itself in the mind without anything 
following to mar the impression. So Eve says to 
Adam : — ■ 



130 POETICS. 

" But neither breath of Morn when she ascends 
With charm of earliest birds, nor rising sun 
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower, 
Glistring with dew, nor fragrance after showers, 
Nor grateful Evening mild, nor silent Night 
With this her solemn bird, nor walk by moon 
Or glittering starlight, without thee is sweet." 

— Par. Lost, 4. 650 ff. 

We see how far better is this arrangement than if 
Eve said, " Nothing without thee is sweet, — neither/' 
etc. 

This figure of Climax, — a gradual rising in power to 
a conclusion that towers above all that precedes, — is 
very common. Note the order of terms in the follow- 
ing:— 

" The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, 
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
Leave not a rack behind." — Tempest, iv. 1. 

One form of climax is that which leads us, by one 
particular after another, up to the main fact of a state- 
ment : — 

" When, fast as shaft can fly, 

Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, 

The loose rein dangling from his head, 

Housing and saddle bloody red, — 

Lord Marmiorts steed rushed by." — Scott, Marmion, vi. 

For oratorical climax, Nichol calls Marc Antony's 
speech to the citizens, the most remarkable instance 
in English. "Of more purely poetical climax/' he says, 
"there is no finer example than the concluding lines of 
Coleridge's Mont Blanc." 






FIGURES. 131 

We may add that the finest dramatic climax is the 
last speech of Othello. — The conclusion of Pope's 
Dunciad is another famous climax, and was especially 
admired by Dr. Johnson. 

Climax, we see, strengthens the impression of any 
great or striking part of a statement. But it is also 
used to make littleness appear yet more little, the 
laughable or mean still more laughable or mean. This 
is called Anticlimax. We ascend nearly to the height 
of the climax, the sublime, — then fall either to the 
absurd, mean, or to some other unexpected end. 

" Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast 
When husbands or when lapdogs breathe their last." 

— Pope, Rape of the Lock. 
" Is it not monstrous that this player here, 
But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, 
Could force his soul so to his own conceit, 
That from her working all his visage wann'd, 
Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, 
A broken voice, and his whole function suiting 
With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing ! " 

— Hamlet, 11. 2. 
"The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind." — Pope. 
For purposes of sarcasm. Pope : — 

" Go teach eternal wisdom how to rule, 
Then drop into thyself, and be a fool." 

For purposes of mere wit : — 

' : When late I attempted your pity to move, 
What made you so deaf to my prayers? 
Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, 
But, — why did you kick me down stairs ? " 

These examples of intentional anticlimax are, of 
course, to be held apart from the rhetorical fault of the 



132 POETICS. 

same name, — which is simply a bad climax. With the 
infinite blunders and bad uses of figurative poetry we 
are not concerned, as the aim of our study is to find 
out all that is peculiar to the style of good poets. 



Part III. 

METRE. 



CHAPTER VI. 

The science of verse is the most difficult part of 
Poetics, and yet it is the most important ; for metrical 
form is "the sole condition . . . absolutely demanded by 
poetry." The chief difficulty lies in the great confusion 
of opinion about the essential laws and tests of verse. 
There is no fixed use of terms, no full agreement even 
on some of the simplest elements of the science. We 
must therefore proceed carefully, accepting only the 
more generally admitted facts, and refusing to follow 
those sweeping changes of recent writers, which are in 
so many cases merely destructive of old theory without 
offering solid basis for new rules. 

§ I. RHYTHM. 

A Syllable is a body of sound brought out with an 
independent, single, and unbroken breath (Sievers). 
This syllable may be long or short, according to the 
time it fills : compare the syllables in merrily with the 
syllables in corkscrew. Further, a syllable may be 
heavy or light (also called accented or unaccented) ac- 
cording as it receives more or less force or stress of 



134 POETICS. 

tone : compare the two syllables of streamer. Lastly, 
a syllable may have increased or diminished height of 
tone, — pitch: cf. the so-called " rising inflection " at 
the end of a question. Now, in spoken language, there 
are infinite degrees of length, of stress, of pitch. If 
phonetic spelling come to be firmly established, we 
shall also have a phonetic versification to note these 
degrees. But while some new systems have been 
advocated {e.g., Ellis's plan for a new metrical termi- 
nology ; or see a report, in the Academy, Jan. 10, 1885, 
of a paper read before the Philological Society in 
London : it advocates a " phonetic notation, providing 
signs for all the significant sounds, as well as for at 
least three degrees of stress and five of length ") none 
has been established. Our conventional versification 
recognizes only accented and unaccented, long and 
short syllables. 

It is a well-known property of human speech that it 
keeps up a ceaseless change between accented and 
unaccented syllables. A long succession of accented 
syllables becomes unbearably monotonous ; a long suc- 
cession of unaccented syllables is, in effect, impossible. 
Now when the ear detects at regular intervals a recur- 
rence of accented syllables, varying with unaccented, it 
perceives Rhythm. Measured intervals of time are the 
basis of all verse, and their regularity marks off poetry 
from prose ; so that Time is thus the chief element in 
Poetry, as it is in Music and in Dancing. From the 
idea of measuring these time-intervals, we derive the 
name Metre ; Rhythm means pretty much the same 
thing, — "a flowing/' an even, measured motion. This 
rhythm is found everywhere in nature : the beat of the 



METRE. 135 

heart, the ebb and flow of the sea, the alternation 
of day and night. Rhythm is not artificial, not an 
invention ; x it lies at the heart of things, and in rhythm 
the noblest emotions find their noblest expression. 
Rhythm, or metre, made itself known very early in the 
history of our race. Just as one who walks briskly in 
a cheerful mood, involuntarily marks his steps with a 
song, whistling, humming, or the like, so at the primi- 
tive religious rites of our ancestors the usual solemn 
dance 2 was accompanied by a song. As the dancing 
lines swayed back and forth, they marked their steps 
by chanted words, — a syllable for each step: the words 
were rude enough at first, but little by little gained in 
precision and meaning (cf p. 9). Two steps, right and 
left, made a unit ; for with the third, the first motion 
was repeated. We may thus assume the double beat 
of left-right as metrical unit: cf the term "foot." 
Westphal has shown that the original Indo-European 
metre consisted of a measured chant accompanying a 
dance of eight steps forward and eight backward ; the 
whole making one verse, divided into halves (cf the 
classic Ccesura) by the pause and return. We shall see 
below that in Germanic 2 " poetry these half-verses were 
firmly bound together by Rime. The alternation of 

1 Hence much of the tallcabout u barbarous metre " and "apt numbers " 
is absurd so far as it assumes to treat rhythm as a constantly increasing 
accomplishment of civilized man. "Any Volkslied" writes in a private 
letter one of our leading English scholars, " any Volkslied shows as good 
an ear as any Pindaric ode by Gray or whomever else." 

2 This dance was regular; it was developed from the march and con- 
sisted of steps, not of irregular leaps. 

3 It is perhaps necessary to insist on the meaning of this term : it in- 
cludes High and Low German, Gothic, Norse, Anglo-Saxon, etc. 



136 POETICS. 

stronger right and weaker left gave the accented and 
the unaccented beat (= syllable) of the foot. With the 
end of the verse (verto), the dancers turned again to 
repeat their forward-and-back. [For further particulars, 
see Westphal, Metrik der Griechen, Vol. 11. ; or Scherer, 
Zur Geschichte der deutschen Spraehe, 2d ed. p. 623.] 

Or, we could imagine a quicker rhythm, in which 
there should be two syllables to each step : one syllable 
light, with the lifting of the foot ; the other heavy, as 
the foot struck the ground again : cf. the classic terms 
(inconsistently used) arsis and thesis. One thing is 
certain : in this combination of song and dance we see 
the origin of rhythm as applied to connected words. 
Thus, rhythm is the harmonious repetition of certain 
fixed sound-relations : time being the basis, just as in 
dancing or music. 

This brings another question : — what relation is there 
between the rhythm of music and the rhythm of poetry? 
The further back we go, the more closely music and 
poetry are connected. For modern times, we may state 
the difference thus : Music has for distinctive character- 
istic, melody, — the variations of pitch, of "high" and 
"low" notes, but speech has, in effect, no such fixed varia- 
tions ; that is, they furnish no special, definite mark to 
speech, except in questions, surprise, etc. But speech 
has quality, — what the Germans call tone-color. Infinite 
variety is imparted to speech by the combinations of 
different vocal effects, — the full or thin vowels, the 
diphthongs, the consonants. This tone-tint is to poetry 
what melody is to music : common to both poetry and 
music is rhythm. 

Our business, therefore, is to consider verse in its 



METRE. 137 

rhythm and in the quality of its tones. Rhythm has 
two branches : time and stress ', or quantity and accent. 
Both are familiar to music, but time more especially. 
Hence, that poetry which depends, for metrical effect, 
chiefly upon detailed time-relations {quantity) will come 
nearer to music than the poetry which depends chiefly 011 
stress-relations (intensity, accent). 

§ 2. QUANTITY. 

Quantity deals with the relative length of a syllable ; 
that is, with the time required to utter it. The Greeks 
adopted quantity as principle of their metre, and based 
their verse upon the relation of long and short sylla- 
bles. A syllable was long which contained a long vowel 
or a diphthong, or a final consonant coming before 
another consonant in the next syllable ; a long syllable 
was equal to two short ones. For such poetry, the term 
"metre" is very appropriate: the verse was really 
measured. In the Germanic languages, and in nearly 
all modern poetry, accent is made the principle of verse : 
we weigh our syllables, we ask how much force, not how 
much time, they require. Meanwhile, we do not utterly 
refuse to recognize quantity as an element of verse, nor 
was classic poetry unfamiliar with accent. In the latter, 
an "ictus," or stress, fell upon the long syllable; in 
modern verse, while the main principle is the alterna- 
tion of heavy and light syllables, we nevertheless admit 
quantity as a "regulative" element. It is a secondary 
factor of verse. 

First, as to the principle of quantity in classic verse. 
Take the famous line of Vergil : — 

" Quadrupedante putrem sonitu quatit ungula campum,' 1 — 



I38 POETICS. 

and a verse of Evangeline : — 

" This is the forest primeval, but where are the hearts that beneath 
it," — 

and at first sight we call each a dactylic hexameter 
verse. We give a scheme : — 

' % ■ v» ^ >» >» ^ . . 

WW WW WW WW WW — 

In one sense, this scheme fits both verses ; but there 
is a radical difference in the application. In the Latin, 
contrast of long (— ) and short (^), a fixed relation of 
time within the foot as well as within the verse, gave 
exquisite pleasure to the sensitive ear. This time- 
relation was the chief metrical factor, although an 
" ictus " ( f ) or stress undoubtedly marked the long 
syllables. In the English verse there is no fixed rela- 
tion of quantity within the foot : " this " requires prac- 
tically no more time than "is" or " the," ^ and *not as 
much as the metrically short but actually long pri- in 
"primeval." The time-intervals of the whole verse are 
marked off by the recurrence of the stress, just as in 
Latin by the recurrence of the long syllable. This is 
an important difference. We may say that in classic 
metres, quantity is the mistress, while quality (stress) 
plays a handmaid's part. The result was a harmony 
more musical than can be given by our verse, in which 
stress is chief metrical factor, and quantity has only a 
regulative office. Some writers say that modern verse 
does not recognize quantity at all. This is a mistake. 
" Long and short syllables," says Schipper in his 
Englische Metrik, " have no constant length, no con- 
stant relation, — but they depend on their place in the 
verse, and on the context ; though they do not deter- 



METRE. 139 

mine the rhythm of verse, they still act as regulators 
of our metre in a very important degree." ^That is, 
while no precise rules prevail, the skilful poet avoids an 
excess of unaccented long syllables or accented short 
ones. It is not the proportion of long and short within 
the foot that we heed, but the proportion in the whole 
verse. Further, quantity is used to help the meaning 
— a sort of onomatopoeia : as in 

" The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea." 

It is very important to hold apart this special, classi- 
cal principle of quantity, or the time of separate syllables, 
from the general principle of time-intervals underlying 
all rhythm (cf. p. 134). Thus Tennyson's two verses: 
" Break — break — break " — and " On thy cold, gray 
stones, O Sea!" are rhythmically harmonious, since the 
time-intervals agree ; as may be seen by any one who 
will tap off the accented syllables, allowing for the 
pauses in the first verse. But we can arrive at no 
metrical result by simply applying the test of quantity 
to the individual syllables. It is not the length of the 
word " break " (of course, elocutionary motives may 
prolong the sound at will) which makes it metrically 
equal to " on thy cold " ; it is the heavy accent, followed 
by & pause. 

§ 3. ACCENT. 

Accent, then, is the chief factor of modern verse. 
But there are two kinds of accent which we must con- 
sider before we can fully grasp the difference between 
classical and modern metres : the word-accent and the 
verse-accent. (1) Word-Accent. — When a word has 
two syllables, one of these receives a marked increase 



I40 POETICS. 

of tone as compared with the other. In words of 
more than two syllables, there is generally a secondary 
accent : i.e., one of the remaining syllables receives 
less tone, indeed, than the accented syllable, but more 
than the rest : cf. shepherd, shepherdess, shepherdesses. 
Of course, there can be a third accent, if the word have 
syllables enough ; for, as said above, speech tends to 
alternate accented with unaccented. 

Of the same nature as the word-accent are, further, 
the syntactical and the rhetorical accent, which concern 
relations of words in a sentence. The accent lifts 
certain words into prominence, leaving others without 
special stress of tone, and without the added distinct- 
ness of articulation which often accompanies accent. 

These two accents — of the word and of the sentence 
— are of great importance in modern verse ; but in the 
classic metres, which had more of a musical character 
than our own, they exercised less influence. Especially 
is this the case with word-accent ; and this we must 
look at more closely, in order to see what difference 
there is between ancient and modern languages in their 
methods of selecting, in a given word, the syllable to 
be accented. This applies, of course, to prose as well 
as to poetry. (1) The Grammatical Accent. — This is 
the principle in Sanskrit, and, to a certain extent, in 
Greek. Taking a given word, we find its accented 
syllable shifting with different grammatical forms of 
the word. In Sanskrit this word-accent is not even 
confined, as it is in Greek, to the last three syllables. 
Thus we have a Movable Accent. (2) The Rhythmical 
Accent. — The word-accent tends to fall upon a long 
syllable, as in the Latin. In Greek, the accent was 



METRE. 141 

indifferent to the quantity of the syllable on which it 
fell : thus the Greek chimaira became Latin chimcera. 
(3) The Logical Accent. — A brilliant piece of research 
by Carl Verner has proved the existence of a movable 
accent in the oldest forms of the Germanic languages. 
This has left its mark in a few sound-changes with 
which we are not here concerned. But it is certain 
that at a very early period, before the date of any 
Germanic literature known to us, this movable accent 
was given up, and the word-accent became a fixed one. 
It chose and clung to a certain syllable, and this was 
tlie syllable which gave meaning to the word. Hence 
the term " logical accent." In all original English 
words, and in many words derived from foreign sources, 
we bring out with additional stress the syllable which 
bears the real weight of the word, the root-syllable. 
Instead of the shifting Greek accent which changed 
from a nominative to a genitive of the same word 
{ct7ithrdpos : anthrdpou), we have such persistence as 
sheep, shepherd, shepherdess, shepherdesses. 

(11) Verse-Accent. — We have seen that verse is 
now marked off by the regular recurrence of a stress or 
accent falling on certain syllables ; and that even in 
classic metres a stress fell upon the long syllables. 
We naturally ask how this verse-accent agrees with the 
word-accent just described. Looking, first, at the dif- 
ferent ways in which we could make verses, we find the 
simplest plan to be a mere counting of syllables, with 
absolute ignoring of word-accent. Each syllable would 
be a verse-accent. Thus, if we slowly count off " one 
— two — three — four," then repeat the words with the 
same slowness, accenting each like the rest, we shall 



142 POETICS. 

have a metrical result. Fragments of verse said to be 
based on this bare syllable-counting are found in the 
Old-Persian, the language of the Avesta. But such a 
system tends to pass into something else ; for the 
impulse to pairs (as in the ticking of a clock), and to 
alternation of strong and weak tones, is inherent in 
language. 

Or, again, we may have a regular system of verse in 
which (as in the pairs of steps in the primitive dance 
noticed above) certain syllables are accented for metri- 
cal reasons, and others are left without accent. The 
metre will thus be regarded at the sacrifice of the word- 
accent. As a license of verse, this is common enough 
in our modern poetry ; but does not extend beyond 
isolated words. We have two kinds of this license : 
the " Hovering Accent " and the " Wrenched Accent.'' 
In the former, word-accent and verse-accent simply 
divide the stress between them : the accent " hovers" 
over both, — as in : — 

" That through the green cornfield did pass." — Shakspere. 

The " wrenched accent" throws the stress on an inflex- 
ional syllable : — 

" For the stars and the winds are unto her 
As raiment, as songs of the Y&x^-player" — Swinburne. 

So, too, the porter and countree of the ballads. Of this 
license Puttenham speaks (Arte of English Poesie) in a 
chapter headed : " How the good maker (sc. poet) will 
not wrench his word to helpe his rime, either by falsify- 
ing his accent, or by untrue orthographic" Gascoigne 
(Notes of Instruction) lays down the same law, and 
observes it carefully in his Steele Glas ; and it is quite 



METRE. I43 

clear that we cannot extend this license to a whole 
verse ; no harmonious system can result from a mere 
ignoring of one kind of accent to suit another. Some 
other metrical element must come in. This new ele- 
ment is furnished in the shape of quantity. Suppose, 
now, we do push word-accent out of the question, but 
make a rule that the verse-accent, the ictus, must fall 
exclusively upon those syllables which have a stated 
quantity — the "long" syllables. This is the rule of 
Greek and Latin metre. But in this scheme we need 
not ignore the word-accent : for the Greek word-accent 
was an increase of pitch, an added height of tone, not 
added stress. " In the Indian, in 'the Greek, and in 
the Roman verse, there was no conflict between the 
ictus, by which the verse was measured, and the accent 
of the words which made up the verse" (Scherer). 1 
The fact that our Germanic race, and, later, most mod- 
ern languages, made stress of tone necessary for the 
word-accent, renders it now impossible to distinguish a 
word-accent by height of tone (pitch) and give the 
stress to a neighbor-syllable. But the Greek combined 
musical and metrical effects where we cannot. As 
was hinted above, the recitation of the Greek minstrel 
must have been a sort of chant : the speech was more 
musical on account of its pitch ; the metre was more 
musical on account of its time-relations. 

But early in the history of the Germanic races, stress- 
accent for words pushed into the foreground. They 
gave up the fixed relations of quantity, as well as the 

1 So, too, Westphal. It is only fair to state that some writers on metre 
oppose this view, and contend that the Greek verse simply ignored word- 
accent. 



144 POETICS. 

pitch-accent. They weighed their syllables. Their 
verse depended on the contrast of heavy and light, not 
long and short. Accent became, as Daniel puts it in 
his Defense of Ryme (1603), "the chief lord and grave 
governour of numbers." This choice of accent rather 
than quantity lay, thinks Scherer, in the passionate 
and vehement nature of our Germanic race. Our 
ancestors were disposed to extremes, and lacked the 
quiet, artistic sense that adopted the placid rhythm of 
Greek verse. The German could not linger on his 
verse-accent ; he put into it all the strength of which 
he was capable ; and he helped his voice by strokes on 
some loud instrument, the strokes being timed by 
verse-accents. Now, we remember how the Germanic 
word-accent was chosen : it had to rest on the . root- 
syllable. Perhaps this word-accent was once, as in 
Greek, a variation of pitch, not a stress ; but early in 
the history of the race, stress was adopted as sole mark 
of the word-accent. But here is a conflict. The same 
word might have on one syllable the verse-accent, on 
another syllable the word-accent ; and both were 
marked by stress, by strength of tone. This was 
intolerable. Hence a rule which became the funda- 
mental principle of all Germanic verse : The word- 
accent AND THE VERSE-ACCENT MUST FALL ON ONE 
AND THE SAME SYLLABLE \ AND THIS COMMON ACCENT 
CONSISTS IN STRESS OF TONE. 

Compared with Greek and Latin metres, our verse 
gains in intensity and force, loses in grace and flexi- 
bility. This is especially true of our earliest verse, 
before the influence of the classics had added so much 
grace and freedom, and, at the same time, regularity, 



METRE. I45 

to our rhythm. The Greek verse sped swiftly and 
lightly, like an Olympian athlete ; the early Germanic 
verse had the clanging tread of a warrior in mail. 

As to the agreement of the verse-accent with the 
rhetorical or the syntactical accent, there is no fixed 
rule. The agreement may lie on the surface, as in 
Pope's or Dryden's verse, where a rhetorical effect is 
always evident : — 

" When music softens or when dancing fires. 1 ' 

But in other verse there is not the same effort to bring 
out a rhetorical accent ; cf. Keats : — 

" His eyes from the dead leaves, or one small pulse." 

In general, the metrical stress and the syntactical 
accent must agree ; for otherwise an intolerable empha- 
sis would be thrown upon the unimportant words. 

We may here note that traces of accentual verse are 
found in the oldest Latin literature. Latin poetry of 
the classical period took its metres from the Greek ; 
but in the so-called Saturnian Verse we have undoubted 
accentual rhythm, and also rime, which, indeed, is a 
natural product of the accentual system. 

§ 4. PAUSES. 

The foundation of rhythm is a regular succession of 
equal time-intervals. In English verse these are marked 
off by accented syllables. K group of such " bars " or 
" feet " may be marked off by a regular stop in the 
sense ; another group follows, repeating the conditions 
of the first, — and so on. But this would be intolerably 
monotonous. Variety is obtained not only by license 



I46 POETICS. 

in the distribution of heavy and light syllables, but also 
by the use of pauses. There are two kinds of pause : 
the compensating and the rhythmical. The compensa- 
ting pause takes the place of a syllable. While in 
general the rule holds that modern verse regularly 
varies accented with unaccented syllables, i.e.; gives at 
least one light to every heavy syllable, there are cases 
where the accent is preceded or followed by a pause in 
place of the light syllable. This omission of the unac- 
cented syllable may be regular, — as in the already 
quoted " Break, break, break," where the pauses are 
very evident ; or it may be somewhat irregular, as in 
the lines quoted by Ruskin {Prosody \ p. 34) : — 

" Till' said' to Tweed' : 
Though' ye rin' wi' speed', 
And F rin' slaw', 
Whar ye' droon' ae' man 
I' droon' twa'. 11 

The metrical effect, say of the first line, would be the 
same if we read: " The Till, it said to Tweed." — Or 
the omission may be isolated and quite irregular. Cf. 
the witches' song in Macbeth: — 

" Toad, that under cold stone, 

Days and nights hast thirty-dne," etc. 

" Let your odour drive hence 

All mists that dazzle sense." — Fletcher. 

Guest condemns this license between syllables of one 
word — as " sun-beam," " moon-light " (Spenser). It 
may be said in general terms of this compensating 
pause that the spirit of our modern verse is against its 
isolated use, but allows it when it is employed with 
regularity. Compare expressions like " Aiild lang 



METRE. 147 

syne," or Cowper's "Toll' for' the brave'." Dramatic 
verse is very familiar with this pause. Dowden speaks 
of the dramatic pause " expressing surprise or sudden 
emotion, or accompanying a change of speakers, and 
leaving a gap in the verse, — a gap through which we 
feel the wind of passion and of song." One famous 
line in Measure for Measure goes so far as to let the 
pause compensate for a (technically) heavy syllable : — 

" Merciful heaven ! 
Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, 
Splitt'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, 
Than the soft myrtle. But man, proud man" etc. 

Certain editors have even proclaimed 'this verse corrupt 
because hopelessly unrhythmical. Scanned by the 
fingers, it is unrhythmical. But let any one read it 
carefully aloud, give due weight to the (technically 
light) syllable " soft " (which is naturally emphatic as 
opposed to "unwedgeable and gnarled"), and also to 
the decided pause after "myrtle," — and the line will 
be musical enough. 

The Rhythmical Pause. — Here there is no dropped 
syllable in the case. It is simply a pause in the verse 
which generally, but not always, corresponds to a pause 
in the sense. The compensating pause allowed the 
omission of a syllable : the rhythmical pause frequently 
is followed by an extra syllable. Of course, the end of 
the verse furnishes the chief rhythmical pause. When 
the sense also pauses here, the verse is called " end- 
stopt" (the technical term used by Shakspere scholars) : 
when the sense does not so pause, the verse is called 
"run-on." But there is another pause after either the 
accented or the unaccented syllable, commonly about 



I48 POETICS. 

the middle of the verse (called in classical metres the 
ccesurd)y which increases in importance with the num- 
ber of accents contained in the verse. This pause 
naturally tends to agree with the logical pause ; but 
such is not always the case. Thus {L Allegro) 

* * When rocking winds are piping loud " 

has no pause in the sense, but there is a slight rhythmi- 
cal pause after " winds." It is stronger and equally 
independent of logical pause in (Dryden, A. & A.) 

" Usurp'd a patriot's | all-atoning name ; " 

and it is absolutely importunate in (Drayton, Polyol- 
bioti) 

" The yellow kingcup wrought | in many a curious shape." 

But in most cases it is logical as well as rhythmical ; 
and here we distinguish (a) the pause that breaks a 
single verse into two or even three groups, — as in 
(Pope, R. of L) 

" When husbands | or when lapdogs | breathe their last; " 
" When music softens | and when dancing fires ; " 

and (b) the pause in run-on lines, breaking up a series 
of verses into new groups, so that the logical divisions 
of phrases and sentences, and the rhythmical divisions 
of feet and verses, do not coincide. In both these 
cases (a and b) there is produced that exquisite strife 
between unity and variety, the type and the individual, 
which is characteristic of our best poetry. There is 
great freedom in the use of the pause. Whereas Gas- 
coigne thinks that the pause " in a verse of tenne will 
best be placed at the end of the first foure sillables," 



METRE. I49 

our later blank-verse does not follow the stiff example 
of The Steele Glas. Thus with Milton, the stateliness 
is due to the sonorous march of accents, their arrange- 
ment and proportion ; the variety is due to the con- 
stantly shifting pause within the verse. In Shakspere's 
verse we can trace the progress towards a free handling 
of pauses. His earlier plays are full of " end-stopt " 
verses, — i.e., the sense pauses at the end of each verse. 
But the later plays abound in " run-on" verses. In 
Love's Labour's Lost, an early play, Mr. Furnivall 
counts one run-on verse to 18.14 end-stopt; in the 
Tempest, a late play, the proportion is 1 : 3.02. 

The pause occurs in different parts 'of the verse, and 
may be "masculine" or "feminine," — i.e., it may occur 
after an accented or an unaccented syllable. Note the 
pauses in the following extract from Paradise Lost, 3. 
80 ff . : — 

" Only begotten son, | see'st thou what rage 1 
Transports our adversary, | whom no bounds 
Prescribed, | no bars of hell, | nor all the chains 
Heap'd on him there, | nor yet the main abyss 
Wide interrupt can hold, | so bent he seems 
On desperate revenge, | that shall redound 
Upon his own rebellious head ? | And now 
Through all restraint broke loose, | he wings his way 
Not far off heaven, | in the precincts of light, 
Directly toward the new-created world. " 

In the third line there are two pauses ; in the last line 
there is none. In the first, the pause is "masculine" ; 

1 None of these " run-on " lines is a " weak ending." "Example of such 
a weak ending is ( Tempest, I. 2) : — 

" Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and 
A prince of power." 

Here we approach the freedom of prose. 



I50 POETICS. 

in the second, "feminine." The pause can even come 
in the first foot, halving it : — 

" Not to me returns 
Day, I nor the sweet approach of even or morn.'" — 3. 42. 

Or in the last foot : — 

"Where no shadow stays 
Thy coming and thy soft embraces ; | he," etc. — 4. 470. 

Schipper notes that in lyric verse, and verse of four 
accents, or less, the sense-group and verse-group gener- 
ally (not always) coincide ; while for verse of more than 
'four accents, the sense-group falls within the limits of 
the verse, — as in examples just quoted. — Often the 
pause in heroic verse has an exquisite harmony with 
the sense. Thus, Mr. Seward, quoting from Beau- 
mont and Fletcher, notes such a use of the pause in 
giving a suspended or incomplete image ; and also 

quotes Milton : — 

" Despair 
Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch, 
And over them triumphant death his dart 
Shook I but delayed to strike. 11 — 11. 480. 

§ 5. RIME. 

Our oldest English verse depended for its rhythm on 
the recurrence of accented syllables ; the number or 
position of the light syllables was not strictly regulated. 
There must be so many accents in each verse. But 
the bare recurrence of accents was not enough for the 
ear, especially when the light syllables were so irregu- 
lar. It was hard to establish the unity of the verse. 
Further, there must be something to afford the same 
sort of pleasure that was given to the Greek by the 



METRE. 151 

quantity of his syllables. Germanic verse had dis- 
carded quantity as a metrical factor ; but at a very 
early period it must have taken up quality. It gave to 
its accented syllables Rime, which (a) brought new 
emphasis to the accents, and (b) bound the verse firmly 
together as a strict unit. In Greek, the verse-accents 
agreed in quantity ; in early Germanic verse, they 
agreed in quality. In general terms, then, rime is 
where two syllables or combinations of syllables, agree 
in the quality of their sounds. But this agreement is 
of different kinds ; and in treating rime, we must make 
a distinction between our earliest (Anglo-Saxon) verse 
and that of later times. In regard -to the former, we 
note that rime was confined within the limits of a single 
ve7 r se ; that it affected the beginning, and not as now the 
end, of syllables ; and that it was an absolute necessity 
of verse, — whereas now, thanks to the more regular 
alternation of heavy and light syllables, and the conse- 
quent harmony, we can often, as in blank-verse, dis- 
pense with rime. It is most convenient to treat the 
three kinds of rime separately. — 1. Beginning-Rime. — 
This is commonly known as Alliteration, but the 
term misleads us, and makes us think it something dif- 
ferent from rime. The initial sounds of two syllables 
agree in quality of tone. We leave the details of 
Anglo-Saxon verse to be discussed later, and for the 
present look at beginning-rime in itself. It is of 
great antiquity. Our Germanic ancestors used it to 
make still stronger the already word-accented and 
verse-accented syllables. It had practical uses. In 
Chap. I. § 1, we noted its application to religious and 
legal ceremonies ; and rimed phrases still survive, as 



152 POETICS. 

" man and mouse," " bed and board," " house and 
home " ; cf. the chieftains Hengest and Horsa, and the 
riming tribe-names Ingaevones, Istaevones, Herminones 
(— Irmin-). It is seen at its best in Beowulf ; Cyne- 
wulf uses it with masterly effect. With the conquest, 
Norman minstrels brought in end-rime, already familiar 
in sacred Latin poetry, and, as extra ornament, in the 
native verse ; but the old rime still flourished here and 
there. Layamon (about 1200) employs it to a great 
degree in his Brut ; and in the famous Vision concern- 
ing Piers the Plowman, it is used with regularity and 
force. But it dropped out of fashion. The old rules 
relaxed and it fell into anarchy, or became a mere 
accident of verse. Chaucer laughs at it as a North-of- 
England trick (Prol. Persones Tale) : — 

" But trusteth wel, I am a sotherne man, 
I cannot geste rom ram ruf by my letter." 

In 1556, Robert Crowley printed Piers the Plowman, 
and felt compelled to explain how the verse "runs 
upon the letter." This noted, he says, the metre 
" shal be very pleasaunt to read." Beginning-rime 
thus became a mere adornment of verse, — and even of 
prose, for Lyly's Euphues riots in "alliteration." Early 
Elizabethan lyric poetry is full of it, — but as an orna- 
ment, not as a principle. George Gascoigne tells the 
poet not to "hunte a letter to death." Shakspere 
makes Holofernes, his pedant {Loves Labour s Lost, 
iv. 2), "something affect the letter" in his "extempore 
epitaph," because it " argues facility." In modern 
times, Swinburne is very persistent with it ; though no 
one will quarrel with his " lisp of leaves and ripple of 



METRE. 153 

rain." It is best not to thrust beginning-rime forward 
in verse ; the poet should let it often lurk in unac- 
cented syllables, — as in Coleridge's lines : — 

" The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
Floated midway on the waves, 
Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountains and the caves." — Kubla Khan. 



Rime that includes both beginning and end of the 
syllable or combination of syllables, and thus makes 
the agreement absolute, is not looked upon with favor. 
This " perfect rime" was used sporadically by Chaucer, 
and is still popular in French poetry ; but is now 
entirely foreign to English verse. 2. End-Rime. — 
This sort of rime was well known to the Latin Hymns 
of the Church, and thus crept into the learned literature 
of Europe. Rime had always been a mark of the (ac- 
centual) Latin folk-poetry, and for this popular quality 
it was adopted by the church ; in the hymns it was 
combined with a regular metre, i.e., strict alternation of 
heavy and light syllables. But end-rime was not un- 
known to the native Germanic verse; cf. the " Riming 
Poem " in Anglo-Saxon of the Tenth Century. It was 
familiar to the oldest Latin poetry. In the Saturnian 
Verse we have such rimes as : — 

" Terra pestem teneto salus hie maneto. 
Bicorpores Gigantes magnique Atlantes. 

End-rime occurs even in classic Latin verse. Wil- 
helm Grimm has collected {Proceedings Berlin Acad., 
185 1) a host of examples, though the rime is often 
imperfect. Rime, therefore, is a natural quality of 



154 POETICS. 

verse, not the invention of a particular race — e.g., of 
the Arabs — as was once supposed. 

The Latin hymn, which made systematic end-rime so 
popular, consisted of stanzas of four verses, mostly of 
four feet, these feet having each two syllables with 
accent on the second. It was popular, and opposed to 
the traditional quantitative verse. The rimes were 
often in pairs ; but sometimes took in all four verses. 
Since each verse had but one rimed word, and that at 
the end, the accented and unaccented syllables alter- 
nated regularly; for the absence of rime within the 
verse made impossible the old Germanic freedom of 
dropping or adding light syllables. 

Another model which influenced English verse was 
the rimed lyric poetry of the troubadours and Norman 
minstrels. In the time of Henry II. all the western 
part of France, Provencal and Norman, was under 
British rule. The troubadours and singers about the 
court of their countrywoman, Eleanor, invented new 
forms of lyric, and in every way spread the use of their 
rimed verse. English poets copied this foreign lyric. 
They took their old native verse, shorn of its beginning- 
rime, or else, dragging that with it cut it in halves, 
joined the ends by rime, and so produced the rimed 
couplet — a bridge over which English verse passed 
to more complicated forms. An odd mixture of Eng- 
lish and French, and of both kinds of rime, is a song 
to the Virgin (end of Thirteenth Century) : — 

" Mayden moder milde, 
Oiez eel oreysoun ; 
From shome thou me shilde, 
E de ly malfeloun. 1 ' 



METRE. 155 

"Maiden mother mild, hear this prayer; shield mc 
from shame and from the evil-one." — Finally, the two 
kinds of rime changed places in English verse. End- 
Rime became a principle — especially of lyric poetry ; 
Beginning-Rime became an ornament. 

End-Rime is single (" masculine ") when it falls on 
the last syllable of the verse : sing : ring. It is double 
(" feminine ") when accent and rime fall on the penult ; 
cunning : running. Of course the unaccented syllables 
also rime ; — mostly they rime perfectly, as in the last 
example. The accent and rime may fall on the ante- 
penult ; or there may be two accents rimed in each 
case. Example of first : pitiful : city full ; example of 

second : — 

u Heaven send it happy dew, 
Earth lend it sap anew" — Scott. 

Note, in this last, still another and third rime in the 
middle of the verse, — end: send. These involved 
rimes are common enough. Cf " And sweep thro' the 
deep " (Campbell) ; which is like the only modest end- 
rime on which the oldest Anglo-Saxon verse could 
venture, — as "fr6d and god." Further, "Hark, hark, 
the lark at heaven's gate sings ; " " And the heart that 
would part sic love." More complicated yet is Hood's — 
" Here end as just a friend I must." 

But rimes must not clash — as in "teach each." The 
ear must decide how far to employ rime. As a rule, 
rime must fall upon an accented syllable, though some 
poets have broken this rule, — Wyatt, for example. 
Guest quotes : — 

" Right true it is, and said full yore ago, 
Take heed of him that by the back thee claivcth, 



I56 POETICS. 

For none is worse than is a friendly foe. 
Though thee seme good all thing that thee deliteth, 
Yet know it well that in thy bosome crepeth ; 
For many a man such fire ofttimes he kindleth, 
That with the blase his beard himself he singe th." 

Lines 2, 4, 5, are examples of rime on unaccented 
syllables. Lines 6 and 7 are examples of imperfect 
rime on accented syllables. This last is called Asso- 
nance. — 3. Assonance is a principle of verse in some of 
the Romance languages, as in the Chanson de Roland, 
the famous French epic. It occurs in Spanish poetry. 
In her Spanish Gypsy, George Eliot imitated "the 
trochaic measure and assonance of the Spanish Ballad," 
— as in Juan's Song: — 

" Maiden crowned with glossy blackness, 
Lithe as panther forest-roaming, 
Long-armed naiad, when she dances, 
On a stream of ether floating?'' 

As in the above, assonance generally deals with the 
vowels alone, and hence is not strictly end-rime : cf. 
black- and danc-. It characterized the earliest Latin 
poetry of the church, but soon gave place to regular 
end-rime. In Germanic literature it has never been 
more than an accident : " it appears only here and 
there, and really only in the form of imperfect full- 
rime." Marston, in one of his satires, makes CEdipus 
rime with snufs (verb), and unrip with wit. — To sum 
up : " Alliteration " deals with initial sounds ; Asso- 
nance with the interior or middle sound (vowel) of a 
syllable ; and End-Rime — rime proper — with the mid- 
dle and final sounds. Perfect Rime — i.e., of all these 



METRE. 157 

sounds, initial, middle, end — is not regarded as legiti- 
mate in modern English verse. 

§ 6. BLANK VERSE. 

We saw that the verse which depends for its exist- 
ence solely upon accents must call in rime as a neces- 
sary element for unity of structure. This rime within 
the verse (alliteration, chiefly) yielded to the new 
metrical principles which informed poetry written in 
greater or less imitation of classical models. Regu- 
larity in alternation of accented and unaccented syllables 
gave new harmony ; rime was needed simply to show 
the end of the verse. In lyric poetry, which is mostly 
in stanzas, rime is still a necessity. But for the flow of 
epic or dramatic verse, rime is less desirable. Hence, 
a total dispensing with rime, and the unincumbered 
gait of Blank Verse. While blank verse approaches 
the freedom of prose, and so appears very easy to man- 
age, it is in reality the most difficult of ordinary metres. 
Its origin, growth, and perfection mark the modern 
period of English poetry. Imitated from the Italian 
poets, and first used, in any notable way, by the Earl 
of Surrey in his translation of the second and fourth 
books of Vergil's JEneid, the fortunes of English blank 
verse were soon assured. In the same century, the 
drama, just breaking from the bonds of petty Moralities 
and Mysteries, seized upon blank verse as the fittest 
instrument it could find. The crude efforts in Gorboduc 
soon yielded to the " mighty line" of Marlowe, the first 
poet to handle blank verse with that ease of stateliness 
familiar to us in his greater scholar, Shakspere. Then 
came Milton, and the epic was almost identified with 



I58 POETICS. 

blank verse. Milton's sweeping charges against rime 
as "the invention of a barbarous age to set off wretched 
matter and lame metre," and as "a thing of itself, to all 
judicious ears, trivial and of no musical delight"; his 
definition of true metre as consisting "in apt numbers, 
fit quantity of syllables, and the sense variously drawn 
out from one verse into another " (ef § 4, on Rhythmi- 
cal Pause), may, with certain allowances, hold good for 
stately epic and for dramatic verse ; but they will not 
hold good for the lyric. Who would reduce Milton's 
own Lycidas, or his Sonnets, to blank verse ? Indeed, 
he seems half to admit this by the saving phrase " in 
longer works especially." Marvell, On Milton s Para- 
dise Lost, praises the poet for scorning to " allure with 
tinkling rhyme," and recognizes the fitness of his metre 
to his subject : — 

" Thy verse, created like thy theme sublime, 
In number, weight and measure, needs not rhyme." 

There was later a slight reaction on dramatic ground. 
Dryden set the fashion of writing plays in rimed coup- 
lets, after the French custom. But in All for Love 
(the only play, he tells us, he wrote to please himself) 
he came back to blank verse, and "disencumbered 
himself of rime." Blank verse is to-day regarded as 
the proper measure for epic, dramatic, and longer 
reflective poems. Exceptions are the heroic couplets 
of lighter epic, like Keats' Endymion (but cf, his Hype- 
rion, with its splendid Miltonic cadences), or, for these 
days, Swinburne's Tristram of Lyonesse, with its memo- 
ries of Marlowe's Hero and Leander ; the stanzaic nar- 
rative verse — as in Childe Harold; and the short rimed 
couplets of Scott and Byron. 






METRE. 159 

In thus speaking of blank verse, we have supposed it 
to be the same thing as unrimed " heroic" or five-accent 
verse. But there are other forms of rimeless verse ; — 
besides such cases as the four-accent blank verse of 
Hiawatha, there are imitations of classic metres, which, 
however, cannot be said to have obtained a very sure 
foothold in our poetry. True, Webbe and Puttenham 
looked with disfavor on rime, and Thomas Campion 
broke a lance in the defence of unrimed lyric measures. 
In his Observations in the Art of English Poesie (1602), 
he made war on rime, and urged poets to follow classical 
models. He gives examples of the new style. There 
is some melody in his 

" Rose-cheekt Lawra, come 
Sing thou smoothly with thy beawties 
Silent music, either other 
Sweetly gracing. 1 ' 

But we see that beginning-rime slips in repeatedly : 
cf. further his so-called " Anacreontic " verses : — 

" Could I catch that 
Mmble trayter, 
Skornful Lawra, 
Swift-foot Lawra, 
Soone then would I 
Seeke avengement." 

In 1603, Samuel Daniel answered with his Defence of 
Ryme, " wherein is demonstratively proved that Ryme 
is the fittest harmonie of words that comports with our 
language." His views have prevailed. 1 There are 

1 The famous " Areopagus," a club for the extinction of the tyrant rime, 
of which Sidney and Spenser were members, could do nothing for their 
purpose; and Spenser most elaborately confuted his own theory. There 



l6o POETICS. 

some fine rimeless lyrics in modern English poetry, 
but they are sporadic : Collins' Ode to Evening and 
Matthew Arnold's Rugby Chapel may be instanced as 
two different types. 

The main thing to remember is that the success of 
blank verse is modern, and is due to the harmony and 
regularity brought to our poetry by the study of classic 
metres. So late as 1600, Thomas Hey wood could say 

that 

" not long since — 
. . . there was a time 
Strong lines were not look'd after, but if rime, 
Oh, then 'twas excellent. 1 ' 

§ 7. THE QUALITIES AND COMBINATIONS OF 
SOUNDS. 

Sounds of the human voice have an endless variety 
of shades and gradations. Think of the modulations 
of spoken words by which we express grief, joy, threats, 
entreaties, pain, and so on. The sharp, " explosive " 
consonants, the lingering effect of the liquids, the broad 
vowels, the thin vowels, — all these, with their combina- 
tions, make up a wonderful material for the skilful poet 
to work with. Such qualities of sound add to the mere 
rhythm of poetry what melody adds to the rhythm of 
music. The most evident use of these qualities lies in 
the imitation of natural sounds. This may be confined 
to words — like "hiss," " cuckoo," " murmur," " buzz," 
"susurrus," etc. Or the imitation may extend to more 

are verses by Ben Jonson against rime, themselves rimed, in which he 
calls it " rack of finest wits"; praises Greek as " free from rime's infec- 
tion " ; and ends by cursing the inventor of rime. But we need not take 
the verses too seriously. 



METRE. l6l 

than one word, and so suggest some action or situation 
— onomatopoeia. Homer has a line which resounds 
with the swell and surge of an ocean billow. Shak- 
spere's verse — 

" The multitudinous seas incarnadine " {Macbeth, n. 2) — 

does not so much imitate as give a distant echo and 
hint of tossing and storm-swept waves ; and the sugges- 
tion of a sea-beach, far below the speaker who describes 
it, is certainly audible in 

" . . . the murmuring surge 
That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes." . . . 

— Lear, iv. 6. 

More directly imitative is Milton's description of the 
opening doors of hell : — 

" . . . On a sudden open fly 
With impetuous recoil and jarring sound 
The infernal doors, and on their hinges grate 
Harsh thunder " {Par. Lost, 2. 879) ; 

or of heaven : — 

" . . . heaven open'd wide 
Her ever during gates, harmonious sound 
On golden hinges moving" {Par. Lost, 7. 206). 

Chaucer's verse about the monk whose bridle men 
could hear "gynglen in a whistlyng wynd " as he rode, 
is itself full of the breezy morning. A comic effect 
and direct imitation are reached in that line of Ovid 
about the frogs : — 

" Quamvis sint sub aqua, sub aqua maledicere tentant." 

Metrical effect can produce onomatopoeia, apart from 
the quality of the sounds, by the slow or fast march of 
the syllables : of. the verse from Vergil, quoted in § 2, 



l62 POETICS. 

or the hackneyed lines, from Pope's Essay on Criticism,, 
about Ajax and swift Camilla. In that same poem, we 
are told that "the sound should seem an echo to the 
sense." This is true in general terms. But a per- 
petual imitative jingle would reduce poetry to the 
functions and virtues of a parrot. The suggestion, the 
hint, must lurk in the background, as is the case with 
all the great poets. Shakspere rarely used direct imi- 
tation ; an instance is the " Double, double/' etc., of the 
witches as they stir their boiling caldron. But some 
writers go so far as to insist that every isolated sound 
has a special suggestion and meaning. Somebody has 
fancied that he hears a rubbing or boring in the sound 
tr ; and so on, to the wildest nonsense. As Professor 
Whitney says, there is "no natural and inherent signifi- 
cance of articulate sounds." Of course, he would not 
deny direct imitations of natural sounds ; nor would he 
exclude from certain combinations the quality of 'pleas- 
ant ' or ' unpleasant,' ' sweet ' or ' harsh.' It is the 
combinations of sounds that give the peculiar quality 
to a verse. Thus, combinations of liquids suggest har- 
mony, beauty : — 

" Morn, in the white wake of the morning star, 
Came furrowing all the orient into gold."" — Tennyson. 

" stars . . . 
May drop their golden tears upon the ground." 

— George Peele. 

Sounds difficult to utter give a harsh effect to verse : 
note the combinations of consona?its in Milton's famous 
line from Lycidas : "Grate on their scrannel pipes of 
wretched straw." Even liquid consonants may be rough 
when combined, as in this verse, or in the " grate harsh 



METRE. 163 

thunder" quoted above, with sounds which are hard to 
utter. A crowding of light syllables may be combined 
with this harshness : — 

" So he with difficulty and labour hard 
Moved on, with difficulty and labour he." 

— Par. Lost, 2. 1021. 

The combination of sounds in a verse is a matter for 
which no definite rule can be given. It is not even 
possible to say, as we can say of rime, that this is good 
or that bad. " Solvitur ambulando." Here lies the 
skill, the genius of the poet ; and no rules can take the 
place of a poetic ear. The poet combines sounds with 
forcible or melodious effect, just as the composer puts 
together his various notes. The " cadence " of poetry 
— such a quality as in Spenser Mr. Arnold calls " flu- 
idity " of verse — is easier to feel than to explain. Let 
us take two stanzas, each in precisely the same metre, 
but differing in cadence as a jog-trot differs from the 
pace of an Arabian charger. Cristofer Tye, in his 
metrical version of the Acts of the Apostles, says : — 

" It chaunced in Iconium, 
As they ofttimes did use, 
Together they into did come 
The sinagoge of Jewes." 

Shelley, Chorus in Hellas : — 

" Another Athens shall arise, 
And to remoter time 
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies, 
The splendor of its prime." 

Even after allowing for the difference in the subject, 
and in the associations called up by each, even after 



164 POETICS. 

setting aside any advantage one may have over the 
other in style, there still remains a something whose 
presence in the versification of the second extract 
makes poetry, whose absence reduces the first to a 
dull jingle. 

§ 8. SLURRING AND ELIDING. 

Slurring is a term used by writers on metre to de- 
note the rapid pronunciation of certain light syllables, 
and is commonly applied whenever we have two light 
syllables to the stress in a regular metre which has 
normally one light syllable to each stress-syllable. Thus 
Chaucer : — 

" Of Engeldnd, to Caunterbury they wende ; " 

or Milton : — 

" No anger find in thee but pity and ruth." 

Here we do not suppress the syllables, we simply 
hurry over them, pronounce them rapidly ; and the 
poet is therefore careful to use for such a purpose those 
words alone which allow of a rapid pronunciation. 
Slurring is a common license in poetry, and must be 
distinguished from contraction, where a syllable is to- 
tally suppressed : e.g., in our familiar F II for / will, or 
in many Shaksperian words, to be noted below. 

Elision is where the final (sounded) vowel of one 
word is so combined with the initial vowel of the follow- 
ing word that the effect is to make a single syllable of 
the two. We shall note this license more particularly 
in speaking of Chaucer's metres : it is common enough 



METRE. 165 

in such cases as Milton's "the infernal doors" =t/i 
infernal ; and in his 

" HurPd headlong flaming from th* ethereal sky, 1 ' 

when there is also a case of slurring in ethereal. It is, 
perhaps, possible to substitute in these cases for elision 
a very rapid slurring. Where elision does not take 
place, we have Hiatus. 



l66 POETICS. 



CHAPTER VII. — METRES OF ENGLISH 
VERSE. 

§ I. GENERAL PRINCIPLES. 

Having considered the elements which make up our 
versification, it remains to treat English Metres them- 
selves. The task is not easy. There is an infinite 
amount of contradiction about the very foundations of 
our verse. Mr. Ruskin asserts that stress "may be 
considered as identical with quantity" (preface to his 
Eng. Prosody). Mr. Henry Sweet, while granting that 
accent tends to lengthen a short syllable, and lack of 
accent tends to shorten a long syllable, says emphati- 
cally that quantity can not "be identified with stress." 
The union of quantity and accent is only a tendency ; 
and Schipper's statement (quoted on p. 138) may be 
accepted as true. In all cases, we should base a metri- 
cal rule on observed facts ; not, as the late Mr. Lanier 
did in his Science of English Verse, force a theory on 
all possible facts, whether carefully analyzed and tested, 
or not. Thus, there is much justice in Mr. Ruskin's 
statement that "the measures of verse . . . have for 
second and more important function that of assisting 
and in part compelling clearness of utterance, thus en- 
forcing with noble emphasis, noble words, and making 
them, by their audible symmetry, not only emphatic but 
memorable" ; but it is only a statement, an observation^ 
— nothing upon which we may found any rule. The 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. \6j 

only method that can lead to good in the study of Eng- 
lish verse is to make the study historical and analytical. 
Every conclusion must be based on a careful study of 
facts. 

Then we have this difficult matter of nomenclature. 
Certain names for "feet" in classical metres — iamb, 
trochee, anapest, dactyl — were long ago applied to 
English verse. But every one knows, or ought to 
know, that the classical iamb or dactyl is very different 
from the iamb or dactyl of modern poetry. Is it right, 
then, to apply to verse based on accents a term ;which 
properly applies only to verse based on quantity ? The 
answers vary. Some say we may so apply the terms, 
bearing always in mind the difference of the two sys- 
tems of verse. Others propose to drop the old terms, 
and substitute the "rising" foot of two or of three syl- 
lables (iamb, anapest), and the "falling" foot of two 
or of three syllables (trochee, dactyl). Still another 
class propose that we give up any distinction between 
iamb and trochee, or rising and falling, and in all cases 
begin the first foot of the verse with the first stress-sylla- 
ble. The character of the verse will then be regulated 
(i) by the number of metrical stresses : as 3-accent 
verse, 5-accent, etc. ; (2) by the presence or absence of 
a syllable or syllables before the first stress ; and (3) by 
the number and distribution of unaccented syllables or 
of pauses. — In marking the feet of a verse, some writers 
use upright lines to denote the relative stress : thus, 
iamb ||, trochee ||, anapest |||, dactyl |||. The old system 
is, however, retained by many : w _, _ w, \j w _, _ w ^. 

Of these three answers, the advantage would lie with 
the last, were it not that it lacks precision when we 



1 68 POETICS. 

apply it to actual verse. If we retain the old names, 
we are able by a single word to give the general char- 
acter of the verse. We may venture the decision that 
while it is productive of little good to insist on precise 
terms for the separate feet, we are justified in applying 
these old names to the general movement of the whole 
verse. We need not waste our time in establishing 
such results as Mr. Spedding's distinction of "quan- 
tity" as a dactyl, and "quiddity" as a tribrach. But 
we shall find it profitable and, in the present state of 
things, necessary, to speak of iambic or trochaic or 
anapestic or dactylic verse ; — though in regard to the 
last Mr. Swinburne tells us {Studies in Song, p. 68) that 
" dactylic . . . forms of verse are unnatural and abhor- 
rent " to the English language. Our chief concern, 
therefore, will be for the metrical scheme underlying 
the verse. No one can read Pope, or even Shakspere 
and Milton, without being conscious of such a definite 
metrical scheme. In the so-called " heroic" verse used 
by these poets, the reader feels that the general scheme 
is a regular alternation of light and heavy syllables, 
opening with light and ending with heavy, this last 
stress being the fifth from the beginning. Remember- 
ing that quantity has only a general and " regulative " 
office here, and that accent is " the grave governour of 
numbers," there is no harm in calling this scheme 
iambic. The use of such a metrical scheme depends 
on the regularity of the verse. For long poems, and 
for those which follow Pope's advice about "smooth 
numbers," terms like iambic or dactylic apply very well. 
But a great mass of lyric verse is difficult to bring under 
definite metrical systems ; for these poems, our only test 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 169 

is to count the accents, and note the number and distri- 
bution of light syllables. In Milton's L Allegro, out of 
142 regular verses, 86 have the iambic, 56 the trochaic 
movement. But it is all practically the same metre. 
A trochaic movement, by the way, is not simply a 
verse which begins with an accented syllable. Such a 

verse is 

" Scatter the rear of darkness thin," 

but it is iambic. There is trochaic movement in 
" Stoutly struts his dames before." 

But all " trochaic" means here is that the light syl- 
lable of the first foot is dropped. 

There is technically a change of movement from tro- 
chaic to iambic in the couplet, — 

" Sometime walking, not unseen, 
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green ; — 

but it is a very slight change. Cf. for shorter lyric 
work, William Blake's Tiger. — We conclude that the 
use of such terms as iambic or trochaic is, for these 
short lyric verses, of doubtful advantage. The unit of 
a modern verse is a stress-syllable together with one or 
two (rarely three) unaccented syllables. From two to 
(say) eight of these units may be combined to form a 
verse. Verses of more than eight "groups," or "bars," 
or "feet," cannot easily be recognized by the ear; four 
and five are popular numbers. Now, when each of 
these feet contains the same number of unaccented 
syllables (it must have one, and only one, rhythmically 
accented syllable), the verse is regular. When the 
number varies, the verse is irregular. The poem 
{V Allegro) just cited is regular; the movement is a 



I/O POETICS, 

regular alternation of light and heavy. So with blank 
verse, as a general rule. But there is a great mass of 
irregular verse : take, e.g., Swinburne's Chorus from 
Atalanta in Calydon: — 

" When the hounds of Spring are on Winter's traces, 
The mother of months in meadow or plain 
Fills the shadows and windy places 

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain. 1 ' 

No one will deny that there are both melody and 
vigor in this. No exact foot is adopted as unit ; the 
verse is irregular in the number of light syllables ; but 
there is an undoubted anapestic movement. There are 
four accents to each verse, and in the third verse the 
first "foot" has no light syllable at all. 

We may now go on to the consideration of our metres 
in detail. But first let us try to sum up, from what has 
been said, the substance of English metrical principles. 
A verse of our poetry must be looked at from three 
points of view. — 

I. The Metrical Scheme. — The poet decides — 
consciously or unconsciously matters not — that he will 
base his verse on a certain scheme, will give it a certain 
movement. It makes no difference whether or not 
other schemes now and then are suggested. He plans 
his verse as an architect plans a building, — with a 
general idea of the style and effect intended. The 
majority of his verses will convey the impression of a 
definite scheme. This scheme he may follow with 
great fidelity, or with great license ; but he cannot in 
any case follow it absolutely. First, he will intentionally 
deviate from it, in order to give variety to his verse. 
If his scheme is iambic, he will now and then begin 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. I/I 

with a heavy syllable, or take a similar license, such as 
slipping in extra syllables. Secondly, he involuntarily 
deviates from the scheme by reason of the laws of 
language itself. So we come to 

II. The Accent and Quality of Words. — The 
poet's heavy syllables cannot be all equally heavy, the 
light cannot be all equally light. Mr. Sweet gives 
the proportion of stress for the different syllables of 

2 3 7 5 16 4 

"impenetrability" thus: im-pe-ne-tra-bi-li-ty. We are 
not here concerned with the finer gradations of stress, 
but recognize only three : primary, secondary, and un- 
accented syllables, — or, as Ellis terms them, strong, 
mean, and weak. But verse is constantly forced to 
accept a mean accent, now as strong, now as weak ; and 
so the strict metrical scheme is violated. Here we see 
how little reliance can be put upon "feet" in and for 
themselves. In the ballad " High upon Highlands and 
low upon Tay," High upon is a so-called dactyl ; read 
"High upon a golden throne," and on is a metrically 
strong syllable equal to High} Again, the quality 
(and also the quantity) of words can vary infinitely; the 
same metrical scheme may be filled with thin and short, 
or with full and long sounds. — We have already noted 
the occasional direct conflict of word-accent and verse- 
accent (cf. p. 142). 

III. Accent and Quality in the Sentence. — As 
with syllables of words, so with words of a sentence. 
" It is a mistake," says Mr. Ellis, " to suppose that there 
are commonly or regularly, five stresses, one to each 
measure" (he is speaking of Chaucer's verse of five 

201 202 

1 In the first case : high up-on; in the second case : high up-on. 



172 POETICS. 

measures) ; and this is correct, if we take the point of 
view of the syntactical or rhetorical accent. In reading 
verse, we often run lightly over four or five syllables in 
order to accent a prominent word with special force. 
A great many of Pope's and Dryden's verses have, 
rhetorically speaking, only four accents, as : — " Which 
Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore." Often there are 
only two or three real stress-syllables. Mr. Ellis {Early 
Eng. Pron. 1. p. 334) marks the stress on the syllables 
of the six opening lines of Byron's Corsair, as follows, 
the relative amount of stress being denoted by the 
figures o, 1, 2 : — 

10120002 12 
' ' O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 

1 1 02000202 

Our thoughts as boundless and our souls as free, 

2001 020102 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 

01020 0020 2 
Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
2 00 1 210002 

These are our realms, no limits to their sway, — 

1202011 202 
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey." 

Different readers, as Ellis remarks, may vary in some 
details of stress ; but the proportion here given will be 
preserved in the main by every one. The pause, as we 
easily feel, tends to divide the verse into two, some- 
times three groups, each of which is dominated by a 
chief accent : note especially lines 2 and 4, which re- 
semble the favorite " balance " of Pope and Dryden. 
Now, the strict metrical scheme calls for 02, 02, 02, 02, 
02 ; to this the last line comes nearest. But the nature 
of spoken words is such that this scheme can never be 
exactly and perfectly realized. When we say that a 
verse has five accents, we mean that the metrical 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 1 73 

scheme calls for five stress-syllables ; but we do not 
expect the concrete verse to show five strictly equal 
stresses. We do demand, however, that the concrete 
verse shall give us the general effect of five stress-sylla- 
bles, shall make us feel the uniform metrical scheme 
underlying the rhythm. 

Here, then, are three sets of claims. It is the 

BUSINESS OF THE POET TO MAKE AN EQUATION OF THESE 
CLAIMS, THE METRICAL SCHEME HAVING THE PREFER- 
ENCE ; and in proportion as this is done with such art 
that we feel no conflict, no clash, by so much does the 
poet's handicraft approach perfection. 

§ 2. ANGLO-SAXON METRES. 

English Metres fall into three groups or periods. 
The first period is the Anglo-Saxon. It embraces the 
interval from the Germanic conquest of Britain in the 
Fifth Century, to the Norman conquest in the Eleventh 
Century. This latter date is not exact. Not only did 
the old metres still flourish under the early Norman 
kings, but they were used as late as the Sixteenth Cen- 
tury. Still, the actual period when our poetry knew no 
other metrical rules than those of the old Germanic 
verse ended with the conquest. The high-water mark 
of this old poetry is seen in Beowulf, in certain of the 
"Caedmon" poems, and in the graceful verses of the 
poet Cynewulf. The second period is that of Transi- 
tion, and ends with the New Learning and the Italian 
influences of the reign of Henry VIII. Chaucer is the 
one great name of this period. The third and Modern 
period begins with the Earl of Surrey and with Wyatt, 
and reaches its greatest height in Shakspere and Milton. 



174 POETICS. 

The characteristics of the metre of this our own period 
are regularity and harmony, a stricter ordering of light 
and heavy syllables, proportion, symmetry > ease. The 
main characteristic of the earliest period in our metre 
is strength, — a sort of breathless vigor: the accented 
syllables are the chief consideration, and they are em- 
phasized not only by their weight, but also by the use 
of beginning-rime. For the period of transition, we 
have mingled characteristics of both the other periods, 
which must be described in detail. In naming Chaucer 
as its greatest poet, we must bear in mind that he 
stands much nearer to our own period than to the 
Anglo-Saxon. His versification is smooth and vigor- 
ous ; it is the language, not the metre, which makes 
him seem so removed from modern verse. But the 
metres before Chaucer, and, to some extent, after him, 
were not of the modern kind. He is the greatest name 
in the English poetry of his period, but he is not its 
most faithful representative. He stands above it. 

The Anglo-Saxon Verse, at its best — say, as in Beo- 
wulf — consists of two half -verses, which may be said 
to correspond to the forward-and-back of the old dance. 
These two half-verses are firmly bound together by 
beginning-rime. It is, therefore, a mistake to print 
them in separate lines, as was done by the first editors. 
In each half-verse there are two strongly accented sylla- 
bles : that is, — a reduction from the old dance-steps, — 
four to each verse. 1 The first accented syllable of the 

1 So Rieger, in his excellent article: "Alt- und Angelsachsische Vers- 
kunst," Ztsft. fiir deutsche Philologie, VII. I ff., on which the above 
rules are based. It is fair to state that some prominent scholars — e.g. y 
Ten Brink — oppose this particular statement, and insist on four accent 
to each half-verse, — eight in all. 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 175 

second half -verse is the rime-giver : zvith it must rime 
one, and may rime both, of the acce7ited syllables of the 
first half-verse : but the last accented syllable of the verse 
must not rime with the rime-giver. Alternate rimes, 
however, were allowed. The following table gives the 
allowed rime-combinations : — 



a 


: « || a 


X 


Beowulf waes bveme 


^laed wide sprang. 


18 


a 


b\\ a 


b 


thser set /£ythe stod 


fringed j/efna. 


33 


a 


b II b 


a 


tha waeron ///onige 


the his wseg writhon. 


2983 


a 


x\\ a 


X 


Beowulf mathelode 


£earn Ecgtheowes. 


H74 


X 


: a || a 


X 


hi hine ]?a aet^seron 


to Crimes farothe. 


28 



As to the quality of the rime : (i) all vowels rime 
with one another, on account of the smooth breathing 
(spiritus lenis) ; (2) a consonant rimes with itself alone ; 
further, sp,-sc,-st,- are treated as single consonants : sp- 
does not rime with st- or sc-> etc. (3) Unaccented syl- 
lables do not count as rime-bearers ; thus in 

" y^ean Mses hu him 77ring-Dene " (116), 

hu him are unaccented, and their h has nothing to do 
with the rime of the accented syllables. 

These unaccented syllables may (1) be omitted be- 
tween the accented syllables, as in the" line last quoted : 
hean kus- are each accented ; so with Hring-Den-. But 
no half-verse may be entirely without an 2inaccented sylla- 
ble. Further, unaccented syllables may (2) be added to 
the verse, within reasonable limits. The favorite place 
for adding unaccented syllables is the beginning of the 
second half-verse : in 

" wanna sengum thara the hit mid mmdum bewand' 1 (1462) 

there are five such light syllables before the rime-giver. 
The rules for the words on whose root-syllables the 



I76 POETICS. 

verse-accent shall fall, are too detailed to be given here. 
In general it may be said that the accent falls on the 
important words — nouns, emphatic pronouns, and the 
like ; and that an emphatic word cannot be unaccented. 

The accented syllables were (in recitation) further 
marked by a stroke on some loud instrument. The 
importance of marking these four accents, the careless- 
ness about unaccented syllables, are the chief character- 
istics of the Anglo-Saxon verse. The presence of such 
unaccented syllables and the consequent need to hurry 
over them so as to come to the strong ones, gave a sort 
of irregular but powerful leap to the rhythm. It is all 
weight, force, — no stately, even, measured pace, as in 
Greek epic verse. Our old metre inclines, like our 
ancestors themselves, to violence. It is at its best in 
describing the din of war, the uncertain swaying of 
warriors in battle; — a verse cadenced by the crashing 
blows of sword and axe. But we do not move forward. 
As was pointed out when we spoke of the parallelisms 
and repetitions of the Anglo-Saxon diction (p. 86), there 
is an eternal leaping back and forth, but there is little 
actual advance. As Scherer says, the Germanic nature 
was fond of raining its blows on the same spot. Often, 
however, the verse has an admirable effect, — as in the 
description of the launching of Beowulf's boat (21 1-2 18). 

Our early verse was at its best in the Eighth and the 
Ninth Century. Then it began to decline. In Byrht- 
noth (993) the verse is here and there corrupt, though 
still full of life and vigor. End-rime increases, where- 
as in the older verse it had been confined to short forms 
like "frod and god." Now the two half-verses began 
to use end-rime as a new connecting-link. The Rime 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 1 77 

Song, one of the poems preserved in the Exeter codex 
(Tenth Century), uses end-rime not only thus in the 
half-verses, but it also often binds whole verses to- 
gether : — 

"gold gearwade, gim hwearfade, 
sine searwade, sib nearwade." 

Confusion sets in. Poems are written now in the old 
verse, now with end-rime alone, now with a mixture of 
both systems. Finally, two distinct tendencies emerge 
from the confusion. 1 One is conservative, and restores 
the old rules, which had fallen into neglect. A poem 
about King Edward, written in 1065, is correct in the 
old fashion, and has no trace of end-rime. The other 
tendency is progressive. Out of the old long-verse it 
makes two short verses connected by end-rime, — the 
short couplet. A geographical difference is now appar- 
ent. In the south, where Norman influences abound, 
there is a disposition to count the syllables and make 
the verse metrical as well as rhythmical — if we may 
so distinguish these terms. In the north, the old verse 
keeps upper hand. Although in this latter case the 
strict rules of rime and accent-position are somewhat 
relaxed, the po$ts are careful to avoid end-rime, and 
sometimes use beginning-rirne to excess, thus break- 
ing the old restrictions. But as late as Chaucer's time, 
the poet who wrote about Piers the Plowman is practi- 
cally free from end-rime, and also correct in his use of 
beginning-rime : occasionally a line occurs (Skeat) like 

" Tyle he had .yylver for his jawes and his ^elynge, , V 
but the verse is fairly regular, and always vigorous. It 
is a sort of Indian Summer for the old Germanic metre. 

1 Schipper, p. 76. 



I78 POETICS. 

The Brut of Layamon (about 1200) though earlier, is 
far less rigid in adherence to the old rules ; it breaks 
away frequently into rimed short verses. But after 
it, and before or contemporary with Piers Plowman, 
come the so-called " alliterating romances " — William 
of Palerne, Sir Gawayne and the Green Knight, The 
Destruction of Troy, and others. These were of north- 
ern, the Brut of south-western, origin ; and the latter 
betrays the Norman influence of its model. 

A verse or two from Piers Plowman will show in 
more modern shape than Anglo-Saxon the swing of our 
old metre : — 

" In a somer seson • whan soft was the sonne, 
I shope me in shroudes • as I a shepe were, 
In habite as an heremite • unholy of workes, 
Went wyde in this world • wondres to here . . 
... I was wery forwandred • and went me to reste 
Under a brode banke • by a bornes side, 
And as I lay and lened • and loked in the wateres, 
I slombred in a slepyng • it sweyued so merye." 

Prologue, 1-4, 7-10. 

The first line breaks the old rime-rule of Anglo-Saxon 
metres ; the others are in the main correct. 

§ 3. THE TRANSITION PERIOD. 

Even so late as the beginning of the Sixteenth Cen- 
tury we find the great Scotch poet, Dunbar, writing his 
longest piece — The Twa Maryit Weman and the Wedo 
— in the old " alliterating " verse. Although his long- 
est poem, it is the only one known to us which he wrote 
in this metre. Still, he preserves substantially the old 
rules, barring a tendency to overdo his " alliteration. " 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 1 79 

End-rime is practically excluded. But on the other 
hand, we find elsewhere decided changes and corrup- 
tions overmastering the Germanic verse. In the Brut, 
these changes and corruptions do not succeed in remov- 
ing the main features of Anglo-Saxon metre, although 
in many cases end-rime breaks a long-verse into a rimed 
couplet which has, or has not, beginning-rime. But 
this exceptional couplet of Layamon becomes regular 
and sole principle in King Hojm, a popular romance 
dating from the second quarter of the Thirteenth 
Century, — say about 1240. The metre of King Horn 
seems, therefore, to be the old verse banishing begin- 
ning-rime as principle and assuming end-rime to bind' 
together the half-verses into a couplet, and giving 
accent to syllables previously unaccented. This change 
was helped by the example of the popular French 
eight-syllable verse (also in rimed couplets) which was 
introduced about this time into our southern poetry ; 
but the two systems were as yet not identical. The 
King Horn measure is, like its parent verse, free to 
drop unaccented syllables, while the French verse is 
more regular. Later, the two systems fall together 
(the French predominating) in the metre of such poems 
as Chaucer's House of Fame (about 1384). — For license 
of dropping light syllables, cf. 

" The se bigan to fldwe, 
And Horn Child to rdwe," etc. 

But there are other corruptions of the old verse. In- 
stead of splitting one long-verse into a short couplet, 
end-rime binds together two or more long-verses. Be- 
ginning-rime thus released from its old duties grows 



l8o POETICS. 

erratic, now flooding the verse to excess, now disap- 
pearing altogether, and becoming simply an ornament. 1 
The accented syllables, too, sometimes increase to 
three in each half-verse, so that the whole verse is 
practically an " Alexandrine/' Such corrupt (that is, 
corrupt as far as the old rules are concerned) verse 
became popular in the Fourteenth and the Fifteenth 
Century, particularly in the ballad poetry. Cf. one of 
Laurence Minot's political songs, written before 1350 : — 

" Whare er ye, Skottes of Saint Johnes toune? 
The boste of yowre baner es betin all doune ; 
When ye bosting will bede, 2 Sir Edward es boune 3 
For to kindel 4 yow care and crak yowre croune." 

We notice an increasing regularity in the use of unac- 
cented syllables, as in the lyric poems of this period 
generally. 

Most interesting and important, however, is the use 
of this old verse in our early English Drama. " The 
earliest popular productions of dramatic literature, like 
the lyric, gave a last refuge to the old national measure, 
although the latter was forced to share its privileges 
with more aristocratic guests " (Schipper). The old 
Moralities and Mysteries let their ordinary characters 
speak in this metre ; while " Virginius, Appius, Con- 
science, Cambyses, Venus, Cupid, and such distin- 
guished personages conversed in formal Septenary or 
Alexandrine (after classical models), or else in light, 
regular couplets " — (after the French). Among many 
other old plays, the already (Part I. p. 65) mentior^d 
Every Man contains much of the old metre ; so does 
our first English comedy, Ralph Roister Doister. But 

1 Schipper, p. 214. 2 'offer.' 3 'ready.' 4 'prepare.' 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. l8l 

this brings us almost to the time of Blank Verse and 
the modern period ; and we note even in the metre of 
these old plays, rough as it often is, a tendency to regu- 
larity and precision. Unaccented syllables are omitted 
only after the middle pause, or caesura; and in every 
way the influence of the now popular French and 
Italian measures makes itself felt. 

The last stage of the old Germanic rhythm, before it 
is lost in the modern measures of the Elizabethan age, 
is the so-called Skeltonic Verse. John Skelton (died 
1529) employed it often and happily, but he did not 
originate it ; for we find it used here and there in the 
old Mysteries. But it is justly associated with Skel- 
ton's name. He wields it with much power in his light 
humorous pieces, such as the Boke of Phyllyp Sparowe 
or Colin Clout (a satire on the clergy), and in his 
Morality Magnyfycence ; indeed, the reckless priest was 
a fitting guide and comrade for this spendthrift metre 
which finally dissipated the last inheritance of ancestral 
verse. We give a line or two from Phyllyp Sparowe 
(description of Envy) 1 : — 

" He frowneth ever, 
He laugheth never, 
Even nor morowe ; 
But other mennes sorowe 
Causeth him to grin 
And rejoice therein. 
Xo sleep can him catche, 
But ever doth watche,*' etc. 

This restless movement is quite different from the 
couplet in King Horn. 

1 Cf. Guest, p. 396. 



l82 POETICS. 

Finally, we abandon all influences or reminiscences 
of the old Anglo-Saxon verse, and come to what must 
pass as its modern representative, — the common four- 
accent metre, variously treated in a host of ballads and 
lyrics, and in such tales as Scott's or Byron's, or in 
Coleridge's Christabel, in a preface to which the poet 
announced his system of counting accents rather than 
syllables, as a new kind of verse ! 

Foreign Influences. — Schipper names three foreign 
metrical systems which came into our literature during 
this period: the Latin Septenary ; the French Short 
Couplet; and the French Alexandrine. — In late Latin 
poetry a metre had become common which consisted of 
a half-verse of four accents, the last accent falling on 
the last syllable, joined to a half-verse of three accents 
with double (" feminine") ending: on account of the 
seven accents of the whole verse, the metre was called 
Septenarius. It was furnished with end-rime. Both 
in the church hymns, and in the songs of wandering 
" clerks " who strolled from nation to nation secure in 
their common language, this metre was very popular. 
Cf. the following opening couplet of a convivial song 

iff. p. 52): — 

" Meum est propdsitum in taberna mori 
Et vinum appdsitum sitienti ori," etc. 

This measure was soon used for English verse. The 
Poema Morale, already mentioned as a sort of medieval 
Gray's Elegy, is a good example of the rimed Septe- 
nary, though the trochaic movement is dropped: — 

" Ich am nu elder than ich was | a wintre and a lore. 
Ich wealde more than idude | mi wit oh to be more. 
To long ich habbe child iben | a wdrde and a dade. 
Theih ibie a winter eald | to jung ich am on rade." 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 1 83 

" I am now older than I was in winters (years) and in 
lore (experience) ; I wield (control myself) more than I 
did, my wisdom ought to be greater. Too long I have 
been a child in words and deeds ; old though I be in 
years, I am too young in counsel." — The alternation of 
accented and unaccented syllables is observed ; there 
is occasional " slurring" of light syllables; the general 
movement is prevailingly iambic. This same metre 
without rime is used by the monk Orm in his Ormu- 
lum, — a sort of paraphrase and commentary for the 
gospels of the church year, written early in the Thir- 
teenth Century. Orm is more regular ; and is invaria- 
bly iambic. This rimeless metre of' Orm's " appears to 
have found little applause and still less imitation." 
The Septenary, split into two verses of four and three 
accents respectively, is very popular in later English in 
the "common metre," and in ballads; while its original 
form, with some modifications, is retained in the vigor- 
ous measure which Chapman chose for his translation 
of Homer's Iliad. The translators, Golding and Phaer, 
also employed it. We find it frequently in modern 
poetry, e.g., in Byron's verses (which are not to be split 
into "common" measure) : — 

" There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, 
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay : 
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so 

fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone ere youth itself be past." 

Here, however, as with Chapman, the rime is mascu- 
line. 

Of indirect Latin origin, but taken directly from the 
French, is the Short Riming Couplet of four accents, 



184 POETICS. 

noticed above as having much influence on the similar 
couplet that resulted from halving the old native verse. 
This Riming Couplet of eight and nine syllables (ac- 
cording as the rime was masculine or feminine), and 
iambic movement, was a favorite for French narrative 
poems. Thence it found its way into English poetry 
about the middle -of the Twelfth Century. In the 
Thirteenth and the Fourteenth Century this verse was 
constructed almost as regularly as its French model, 
and was popular throughout England ; although the 
northern poets always inclined somewhat to the free- 
dom of dropping or adding light syllables. It is no- 
where used with prettier effect than in The Owl and 
the Nightingale (south of England, about 1250) : — 

" Ule," heo T sede, " seie 2 me soth ; 
Wi dostu 3 that unwightes doth ? 
Thu singest anight and noght adai, 
And al thi song is wailawai.*" 

It is used in certain religious pieces in the north — 
with considerable license — and in poems like Bar- 
bour's Bruce and Wyntown's Chronicle of Scotland. 
Among southern poets who adopted this metre, we 
may mention particularly Gower {Confessio Amantis) 
and Chaucer (House of Fame ; Boke of the Duchesse). 
The general tone of the verse is iambic ; but the open- 
ing light syllable is often dropped, and " hovering 
accent " is freely used. The peculiarities of verse in 
the individual poems cannot be discussed here ; they 
belong to the special study of middle-English metres. 

Thirdly, we have the Alexandrine. This metre of 
six accents was early imitated from the French ; but 

1 She. 2 Say. 3 Why dost thou. 4 Alack-a-day. 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 1 85 

was at first used (as in the Chronicle of Robert of Glou- 
cester, about 1300) in company with the Septenary. 
About the beginning of the Fourteenth Century, Rob- 
ert Mannyng wrote a rimed chronicle of England in 
Alexandrines, which were copied from the verse of his 
model, Langtoft's French Chronicle of England. There 
are six accents, with a pause, commonly after the third 
accent ; and often rimes are given to the half-verses so 
formed : — 

" Tourne we now other weys unto our dwen geste 
And speke of the Waleys that lies in the foreste." 

This metre was popular both as here printed and also 
in the lyric stanza of four verses with three accents to 
each. Regular Alexandrines are very common in the 
Moralities and Mysteries, and in other poems, even in 
Elizabeth's time: e.g., Drayton's Polyolbion. The great 
rival of the Alexandrine was the Septenary : in Robert 
of Gloucester, as noted above, the two were used side 
by side. This combination became popular in the Six- 
teenth Century, and was called by Gascoigne "poulter's 
measure," because the poulterer "giveth XII for one 
dozen and XIIII for another" : this, of course, refers 
to the number of syllables. Cf. Surrey : — 

V Layd in my quiet bed, in study as I were, 

I saw within my troubled head, a heape of thoughtes appeare. 1 ' 

Gascoigne calls this "the commonest sort of verse 
which we use nowadayes " (sc. 1575). 

This scanty description must suffice for the transition- 
period, except so far as Chaucer is concerned. Enough 
has been said, however, to show for this epoch a steady 
advance of metrical principle in the place of the purely 



1 86 POETICS. 

rhythmical nature of the Anglo-Saxon verse. By this 
is meant the increased demand for proportion and regu- 
larity ; the loss of beginning-rime as factor of the verse ; 
curbing of the old license to drop or add light syllables ; 
the exclusive use of end-rime. Chaucer is really a 
modern poet, even in his metre and cadences. But in- 
asmuch as the Italian studies and imitations of Wyatt 
and Surrey, the change to a language practically mod- 
ern, and the introduction of blank verse, all make the 
early and middle part of the Sixteenth Century the 
evident beginning of a new period of English Poetry, 
we must give Chaucer a place by himself, as to one 
who anticipates the future. The popular comparison 
which likens Chaucer to a lovely day of earliest spring, 
soon succeeded by the old frost and rain, will apply 
equally well to his metre. 

§ 4. CHAUCER'S METRES. 

Chaucer's metres may be referred to two systems : 
the short verse of four accents {Short Riming Couplet, 
mentioned above), and the so-called heroic verse of five 
accents. Both are " iambic" in movement; the heroic 
verse being more strict in this respect than the short 
verse, which in a number of cases begins with a heavy 
syllable. When the heroic verse seems so to begin, 
Ten Brink would assume always a " hovering accent," 
i.e., an equal division between the claims of the metre 
and the claims of the word. This hovering accent of 
Chaucer we discuss below ; but the constant practice 
of English poetry is to allow great freedom with the 
opening foot of an " iambic" verse, and after the pause, 
as in (Milton) 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 1 87 

"Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts." 

So Chaucer : — 

" Tr diet he and honour, fredbm and curteisie." 

Here there is undoubtedly transposed accent, and we 
should call the first foot " trochaic" by license; fre- 
dom y really a compound word, may have the hovering 
accent. Further, we must always bear in mind that 
not a single "foot," but the combination of accented 
and unaccented syllables in a whole verse, is what we 
chiefly regard. But regularity — not monotony — is a 
quality of good metre ; hence we properly call Chau- 
cer's verse "iambic." The short verse is in rimed 
couplets. The poet used it in his earlier work (e.g., 
Boke of the Ditches se) ; but after his Italian journey 
abandoned it for the heroic verse, returning, however, 
to the old metre in his House of Fame. Heroic verse 
was used sporadically before Chaucer ; but practically 
it was he who introduced it into our poetry. In his 
hands it became so flexible and powerful that it has 
since steadily maintained its place as the most popular 
measure of our verse. He uses it in couplets {Prologue 
and many of the Canterbury Tales ; Legende of Goode 
Women, etc.) and in the strophe {Troihis ; Monkes Tale). 
Epic rimed verse tends to be more regular than dra- 
matic verse, on account of the freedom of recitation in 
the latter ; more regular than blank verse in general, 
because rime promotes uniformity. Chaucer's verse, 
therefore, if compared with Shakspere's or Milton's, is 
eminently smooth. Yet the person, who unprepared 
tries to read Chaucer, will not be disposed to agree with 
such a statement. By observing the following rules, 



l88 POETICS. 

however, one will find a music and breadth of harmony 
in Chaucer's verse not surpassed by any English poet 
except perhaps the two named above. 

Difficulties in the scansion of Chaucerian metres are 
to be referred (a) to the words themselves or (b) to 
their connection. Then, too, we carry our silent letters 
and syllables into Fourteenth-Century English ; where- 
as we should (as in modern German) carefully sound 
final e and final -es, -ed, etc. Exceptions are noted 
below. 

The Anglo-Saxon and older inflexional syllables had 
become greatly weakened in Chaucer's time ; but, with 
some exceptions, they were not yet lost or silent. Thus 
the infinitive ending -an had weakened to -en> then, in 
many cases, to -e. The full vowels (a, o, u) were like- 
wise mostly weakened to -e. This weak -e was either 
sounded, slurred, or silent. It was (when final) sounded 
in the plural of attributive adjectives; in definite ad- 
jectives ; in the infinitive mood ; in adverbs ; in the 
dative singular of nouns. It was silent in the pronouns 
hire, oure, youre, here, myne, thyne ; thise, some ; in strong 
past-participles where n is dropped: write; in before, 
there, heere. Note, further, that the above -e is unac- 
cented and follows the primary word-accent. In other 
cases, — i.e., not covered by the above words where it is 
silent, or by the kinds of word which always sound it, — 
weak e final following the primary word-accent is some- 
times sounded, sometimes silent. It is not unreasonable 
to allow Chaucer the freedom in this respect which is so 
common in German poetry. While for nouns the gen- 
eral rule holds that final -e is more likely to be silent in 
words derived from the French than in native words. 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 1 89 

still we find Chaucer using a good English word like 
love now as one syllable, now as two. Exactly so 
with German : Liebe is normally of two syllables ; but 
Scheffel can say, " O Lieb', wie bist du bitter ! " 

When weak e is not final, it is mostly pronounced in 
such cases 2&floures y lit el, comen, etc. But it is also, in 
many cases, slurred^ — i.e., a syllable is so rapidly passed 
over and brought so close to its neighbor, that the two 
syllables have metrically the value of only one. So 
that in many cases we are free to sound separately, or 
to slur, as the verse demands. This holds good of 
plurals in -es ; of verbs in -en, -est, -eth; of nouns ending 
in -el, -en, -er, etc. Thus e is slurred, e is silent, in 

" And thinketh ' Here cometh my mortel enemy. ' " 
" And forth we riden a litel more than paas," 

although in the first verse the slurring really amounts 
to contraction : tliink'th, comtJi. — For e sounded, cf. 

" In thilke colde frosty regioun." 

This slurring is common where liquid consonants are 
concerned : stoln, born, loveres, etc. 

When two syllables come together, each containing 
an unaccented e, one of these is slurred, or else may 
become silent. Slurred in lovede, silent in linntede, in 

" To ryden out, he lovede chyvalrye." 

" How Atthalaunte 1 huntede the wilde boor." 

Also, when a syllable unaccented, but capable of 
bearing accent, is followed by an unaccented c, the 
latter is slurred or silent : loveres, pi/grimes. After a 
secondary word-accent, e is sometimes sounded, some- 

1 Cf. under Elision. 



I9O POETICS. 

times slurred or silent : emperoures, mesurdble. Unac- 
cented e between primary and secondary accent is 
mostly sounded : thus enemy, — and cf. 

" The pikepurs and eek the pale drede." 

In every, on the contrary, the second e is always silent. 
Other vowels than e may be slurred. So parisshe: — 

" Wyd was his parisshe and houses fer asonder." 

So charitable, naturally, amorously. Contractions, how- 
ever, occur ; benedicite and Jerusalem have each only 
three syllables with Chaucer; avenhtre — aunter ; 
whether = wher, etc. 

Thus, with the general rule that all vowels are 
sounded, we have cases where, for grammatical reasons, 
a weak vowel is silent, or else is so situated that it may 
be sounded or slurred according as the metre demands. 
But there is another freedom of equal importance with 
slurring : Elision. This is when a final vowel is silent 
before the vowel which begins the following word : — 

" Thestaat, tharray, the nombr^ #nd eek the cause." 

Elision may often take place before h : in he, his, etc. ; 
the verb have ; honour, humble, etc. : — 

" That in that grove he wold^ him hyd^ al day." 

But even this h may prevent elision : compare 

" Wei cowde he fortunen x\\e ascendent." 

Where the two vowels do not coalesce, we have Hiatus, 
— mostly after a pause, or for sake of emphasis — as in 

" Withouten doute", it may stonde so." 
" Purs is th* ^rcedeknes helle, quod he." 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. I9I 

Of course, when final e is accented, it is not liable to 
elision, — e.g. y pitee. — Finally, we have the contraction 
of two words into one — -often indicated by the spell- 
ing : as not for ne wot (know not) ; nadde = ne hadde ; 
this ^= this is. 

Before leaving this subject it is well again to remind 
the reader of the importance attached to slurring. It 
is pedantic to refuse Chaucer a license claimed by every 
English poet, - — even by so exact a versifier as Pope ; 
and what may seem corrupt to mere syllable-counting 
will become harmonious verse by the use of this free- 
dom. Cf. Shaks. All's Well, n. 2 : — 

" To entertain it so merrily with a fool." 

Chaucer : — 

11 1 ne saugh this yeer so mery a companye." — Prol. C. T. 764. 

So Milton : — 

" No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth." 

The Rhythm. — To make verse-accent and word- 
accent fall on the same syllable is the general principle 
of Germanic metres. Chaucer observes this rule ; but, 
like all great poets, he avoids any see-saw effect ; he 
does not construct his poetry by the foot, but by the 
verse ; and he aims at a wider harmony than the tick- 
ing of a clock. His rhetorical accent seldom clashes 
with the rhythm of his verse ; while to prove every foot 
a perfect {y — ) is impossible. Attentively consider the 
verse : — 

" That if gold ruste, what schuld* yren doo?" (C T. 500), 

and the force of the above statement will be evident. 
The rhetorical accent and the general rhythm of the 



192 POETICS. 

verse agree ; the strict metrical scheme of regularly- 
alternating light and heavy syllables will not apply. 
Bat the line is still " iambic" in movement, just as 
Milton's " Universal reproach, far worse to bear" is 
"iambic," despite two so-called " trochees " at the start. 
As to word-accent, we must here note the peculiarity 
of Chaucerian verse alluded to above, called " Hovering 
Accent " (Schwebende Betonung). Many words, mostly 
of Romance origin, were, it is true, pronounced with 
the stress (probably a slight one) now on one, now on 
another, syllable: honour, honour; pitee, pite'e ; etc. Cf. 
goddesse in : — 

* ' I not whether ( = wher) sche be womman or goddesse " (rimes 
with gesse) (C. T. 11 01), 

and: — 

" I mene nought the goddesse Dyane." — C. T. 2063. 

So, also, Romance words in -age, -ance, -ence, etc. 
This freedom of word-accent was probably not so great 
as it seems. The first two syllables of goddesse were 
pronounced with nearly equal accent. But still more 
emphatic was the license allowed in the Hovering 
Accent ; here no help comes from the word itself. It 
demands one accent, the verse another. Compromise 
results in an equal stress on both syllables, — a sort of 
"spondee." Thus in a line quoted above: "How At- 
thalaunt^ huntede the wilde boor," the word-accent is 
on hunt, the verse-accent on ed'e. Result is hovering 
accent. Cf. "The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." 
(Gray.) 

Rime. — End-rime is the rule; considerable allitera- 
tion occurs. Owing to the inflexional syllables, there 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. I93 

is an abundance of " feminine" or double rimes, thus 
adding variety and melody to the verse. A peculiarity 
of Chaucer's rime is that two words identical in form 
rime with each other, provided they differ in meaning 
(see § 5, Chap. VI., on Perfect Rime) ; seeke (to seek) : 
seeke (sick). The rimes are useful in proving grammati- 
cal points : thus from the rimes Rome: to me ; allow the: 
youthe, we know that final e must have been sounded. 

Verse. — We have yet to note the variety introduced 
in Chaucer's verse by his skilful use of pauses. His 
verse is regular : technical licenses are rare, as, when 
the light syllables disappear from a " foot " leaving but 
one (heavy) syllable {e.g., Al | bysmotered with his ha- 
bergeoun), or when the said foot has two light syllables 
instead of one {e.g., Of Eng'elond, to Canterbury they 
wende). Most cases of the latter kind may be rectified 
by "slurring" {e.g., For manjj/ a man so hard is of his 
herte ; and the last example). But his pauses show 
variety and skill. Ten Brink notes four principal 
varieties of the Chaucerian " ccesura" : (i) after the 
fourth accented syllable (masculine ; i.e., the accent 
falls on the syllable immediately preceding the pause) ; 
(2) after the fifth syllable, the accent falling on fourth 
(feminine); (3) after the sixth accented syllable (mas- 
culine) ; (4) after the seventh, accent falling on sixth 
(feminine). Examples : — 

(1) " Benign^ he was | and wonder diligent." 

(2) " Ful worthi was he | in his lordes werre." 

(3) " With him ther was his son* | a yong Squyer." 

(4) " The holy blisful martir | for to seeke. 11 

Double caesura often occurs : — 

" With grys | and that the fyneste j of a lond." 



194 



POETICS. 



Chaucer is very careful about the variety of his metre ; 
he does not employ so many "end-stopt " lines as to be 
monotonous, nor does he entirely break up the integrity 
of his verse-system by constant "run-on" lines; note 
the skilful mingling of pauses with both " end-stopt " 
and "run-on " lines in the following : — • 

" A knight there was, | and that a worthy man, 
That from the tyme | that he first began 
To ryden out, | he lovede ch5 T valrie, 
Trouth^ and honour, | fredom and curteisie. 
Ful worthi was he | in his lordes werre, 
And therto hadd^ he riden, [ ndman ferre, 1 
As wel in Cristendom | as. in hethenesse, 
And ev.re honoured | for his wdrthinesse." 

Chaucer uses the end-stopt lines far more in his short 
couplets than in his heroic verse ; for the latter, by its 
length, gives opportunity for variety by means of groups 
within the verse limits. 



Further particulars about Chaucer's verse should be 
sought in Ten Brink's Chaucer s Sprache und Verskunst, 
and in Ellis' Early English Pronunciation ; while, for 
his language, every student of Chaucer should become 
familiar with Professor Child's admirable essay, — on 
which all Chaucer work in this field is now based, — 
perhaps most accessible in Part I. of Ellis' above-quoted 
work. — After Chaucer, the five-accent verse was used 
by his scholars, Occleve and Lydgate ; by Stephen 
Hawes, Barclay, Henrysoun (" Chaucer's brightest 
scholar"), Dunbar, Douglas, and Lyndesay. With the 
Earl of Surrey and the rise of Blank Verse, we come to 
our modern epoch. 

i " Farther." 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. I95 

§ 5. MODERN METRES. 

The first part of TotteVs Miscellany (1557) gives a 
number of shorter poems by Surrey and Wyatt ; and a 
few more of them are added towards the end of the 
book. Of the 40 poems attributed to the Earl of 
Surrey, all are iambic in movement, and 21 are five- 
accent (the so-called " heroic pentameter"); 9 are in 
the Poulter's Measure (Septenary alternating with Al- 
exandrine) ; 6 are regular four-accent ; 3 are regular 
three-accent ; and 1 has a stanza made up of a quatrain 
in ballad-measure, — i.e., the Septenary split into a four- 
accent and a three-accent verse, by the riming of the 
pauses in successive verses, — with a couplet in four- 
accent, and a single concluding five-accent verse : e.g.: — 

" O happy dames that may embrace 
The frute of your delight, 
Help to bewail the wofull case, 
And eke the heavy plight 
Of me that wonted to rejoyce 
The fortune of my pleasant choyce : 
Good Ladies, help to fill my moorning voyce." 

As far as metre is concerned, this is quite the mod- 
ern lyrical manner. — Of the 96 assigned to Wyatt, 
practically all are iambic ; jo are five-accent ; 16 are in 
four; 5 are in three; 2 are in Poulter's ; 1 is in four 
and three ; 1 is in five and three; and one is quite ir- 
regular (p. 223). x 

This shows what is meant by naming Surrey and 
Wyatt as the earliest poets of our modern period. We 
see how great a favorite the five-accent verse with 
iambic movement is growing in English lyric poetry. 

1 Arber's Reprint. 



I96 POETICS. 

As to iambic movement, George Gascoigne, nearly 
twenty years later, in his Certayne Notes of Instruction 
in English Verse y laments that " wee are fallen into 
suche a playne and simple manner of wryting, that 
there is none other foote used but one. ,, Of course, 
however, lyric poetry knew other movements — as, for 
example, the trochaic measures of Greene, Barnefield, 
Constable, Sir P. Sidney, and others : thus, the latter' s 
Serenade (cf. p. 81) from his Astrophel and Stella : — 

" Who is it that this dark night 
Underneath my window plaineth ? 
It is one who from thy sight, 
Being, ah ! exiled, disdaineth 
Every other vulgar light." 1 

This four-accent verse, in couplets, with prevailing tro- 
chaic movement, became popular, and is familiar to us 
in Greene, e.g., Philomela s Ode ; in such songs as that 
from the Passionate Pilgrim ("As it fell upon a day In 
the merry month of May ") ; in The Phoenix and the 
Turtle ; and in Shakspere, e.g., the song in Love's Lab. 
Lost, iv. 3 (also printed in Passion. Pil.) : " On a day, 
alack the day," etc. 

But the iambic movement was overwhelmingly the 
prevailing measure. The verse varied in its number of 
accents. As we saw in Surrey's case, the Septenary 
was split into four-and-three ; when the ending of the 
original was feminine, and the rhythmic pause mascu- 
line, we have alternate single and double rimes, — e.g., 
in Puttenham's example (Arte Eng. Poes. p. 85) : — 

" The smoakie sighes, the bitter teares, 
That I in vaine have wasted, 

1 English Garner, I. 578. 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. I97 

The broken sleepes, the woe and feares, 
That long in me have lasted," etc. 

That this new verse is not simply the older metre 
differently printed, is evident if we compare a couplet 
or two from Chapman's Iliad: — 

" As when about the silver moon, when air is free from wind, 
And stars shine clear, to whose sweet beams, high prospects, and 

the brows 
Of all steep hills and pinnacles thrust up themselves for shows, 
And even the lowly valleys joy to glitter in their sight, 
When the unmeasured firmament bursts to disclose her light, 
And all the signs in heaven are seen that glad the shepherd's 

heart ; 
So many fires disclosed their beams, made by the Trojan part," etc. 1 

Similarly, the Alexandrine was split into two verses 
of three accents each : cf. Surrey : — 

" The fire it cannot freze : 
For it is not his kinde, 
Nor true love cannot lese 
The Constance of the minde." 

The chief mark of this new period is the rise of Blank 
Verse. Surrey, so far as we know, was the first to use 
it. In his translation of Vergil's JEneid, Books II. and 
IV., he employed the five-accent measure, which was 
also the metre of his predecessor, Gawin Douglas ; the 
difference lay in the fact that Douglas made his trans- 
lation of the JEneid in heroic rimed couplets, while 
Surrey, after the model of the Italian, rejected rime. 
His example was soon followed. Gascoigne {e.g., in his 
Steele Glas, "a first experiment in English satire"), 
Lyly, Peele, Greene, and others, all improved, as was 
1 Iliad, vni. See Epic Simile, p. 109. 



I98 POETICS. 

natural, on Surrey's somewhat stiff verses. These 
poets clung to the rigid system of counting syllables, 
after the Italian fashion ; 1 but they were less guilty 
than Surrey in regard to the wrenched accent {cf. p. 142) : 
thus in Surrey's verse — 

" Whoso gladly halseth the golden meane," 

only the last two feet have the iambic movement. But 
Peele and Greene wrote very pretty blank verse ; and 
the poets soon learned to make their rhythm fit more 
closely to the word-accent. Hovering Accent, however, 
abounds, and is frequent enough in Shakspere and 
Fletcher. 

In Tamburlaine - the Great by Christopher Marlowe, 
published 1590, the drama at last found the metre best 
suited to its purposes, and used it with conscious ease. 
Marlowe's somewhat boastful prologue to Tamburlaine 
is famous : — 

* * From jigging veins of riming mother wits, 
And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay, 
We'll lead you to the stately tent of war, 
Where you shall hear the Scythian Tamburlaine 
Threatening the world with high astounding terms 
And scourging kingdoms with his conquering sword. 
View but his picture, " etc. 

In Shakspere's hands this weapon of blank verse almost 
became a bow of Odysseus ; although Milton rivals 
Shakspere as far as majesty and vigor are concerned. 
Since Milton's time, the quantity of blank verse has 
much surpassed its quality, though Keats in his Hype- 
rion, and Tennyson in certain parts of the Idylls of the 

1 Cf. Schroer, Ueber die Anfdnge des Blankverses in England, " Anglia" 
iv. 1. 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. I99 

King, have clone excellent work, — Keats in mingled 
sweetness and strength, and Tennyson in delicacy of 
construction. 

Meanwhile,* popular as blank verse became, rime 
really lost no ground. For epic purposes the couplet 
(iambic), though rejected by certain critics and poets, 
was polished into beauty — cf the exquisite cadences of 
Marlowe's part of Hero and Leander ; while the stanza 
came again into favor — cf. Shakspere's narrative 
poems, or Spenser's Faery Qneene. Then, too, lyric 
poetry multiplied its forms of verse and combinations 
of rime, so as to keep pace with that profusion of 
melody which made Elizabeth's En-gland "a nest of 
singing birds." In short, the variety of verse becomes 
so marked that we must abandon any attempt at his- 
torical statement, and, taking the broad field of modern 
metres, shall briefly consider them according to their 
number of accents, the general features of their move- 
ment, and their combination in stanzas. The charac- 
teristics of our ordinary metres we have already noted, 
— stricter reckoning of light syllables and more regular 
alternation with the stress ; an added ease of rhythm ; 
disappearance of beginning-rime as a metrical factor ; 
more attention paid to the regulative force of quantity ; 
the rise of blank verse. There is a smoothness, a 
finish, in modern work, which results from a higher 
standard of general culture and a closer study of classic 
and foreign models. The variations of stress, pitch, 
quantity, and tone fall over the rigid scheme of the 
metre like clinging drapery about the limbs of a statue, 
at once revealing and softening the outlines. 

The simplest way to classify metres is by the number 



200 POETICS. 

of stress-syllables in the individual verse. By "verse" 
we here mean the simple plan of the rhythm, uninflu- 
enced by the actual words with their separate and col- 
lective emphasis ; we deal simply with the metrical 
scheme, before we have made that equation of claims 
which was mentioned above, p. 173. A second and 
subordinate factor of classification is the regularity or 
irregularity of the metrical scheme : — whether it has a 
constant alternation of light and heavy syllables, and 
thus can be classed as "iambic," etc., — or whether it 
approaches the old freedom, and appeals simply to the 
poetic ear. 

{a) Verse of One Stress. 

Such verses occur at the end of a stanza, or within 

the stanza, but can hardly be used continuously. To 

be sure, we might so print a line of Hood's (already 

quoted) : — 

" Here end 

As just 

A friend 

I must," 

but we should soon have to divide words, and other- 
wise fall into an intolerable jolting ; only for a comic or 
like effect can such verse be thought of. Cf. parts of 
Southey's Lodore. In the stanza, however, it is often 
used — as in Herrick's Daffodils : — 

" We have short time to stay, as you ; 
We have as short a spring ; 
As quick a growth to meet decay, 
As you or any thing. 

We die 
As your hours do, and dry 
Away, 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 201 

Like to the summer rain ; 
Or as the pearls of morning's dew, 
Ne'er to be found again." 

See, also, the same poet's White Island. Used at the 
end of a stanza, such a verse is sometimes called the 
"bob" or "bob-wheel." 

(b) Verse of Two Stresses. 

Regular, with iambic movement, are Herrick's verses 
(To the Lark) : — 

" Because I do 
Begin to woo, 
Sweet singing Lark, 
Be thou the clerk," etc. 

Regular trochaic, with feminine rimes, in Swinburne's 
Song in Season : — 

" Dust that covers 
Long dead lovers 

Song blows off with | breath that brightens ; 
At its flashes, 
Their white ashes 
Burst in bloom that | lives and lightens." 

There is anapestic movement in Scott's Coronacli ; 
dactylic in parts of Hood's Bridge of Sighs. Irreguhr 
but harmonious is the movement of Shelley's Arctliusa, 
of Baroness Nairn's Land o y the Leal (with the old 
license of dropping light syllables), of parts of Shak- 
spere's song in Mid. Night's Dream, III. 2 : — 

" On the ground 
Sleep sound : 
I'll apply 
To* your dye, 



202 POETICS. 

Gentle lover, 
Remedy. 

When thou wakest 
Thou takest 
True delight," etc. 

It would be perilous for any one but Puck and his 
fairies to try this metre. See, however, the song at 
the end of Twelfth Night, Act iv. — and we remember 
(cf. p. 181) Skelton's fondness for irregular two-accent 
verse. 

(c) Verse of Three Stresses. 

The old Alexandrine, when halved, allowed four dif- 
ferent combinations in a regular stanza, according as 
the old pauses and endings were masculine or feminine : 
thus, all the new verse-endings could be masculine ; all 
could be feminine ; I and 3 could be masculine, and 3 
and 4 feminine ; or vice versa. Further, we have the 
presence or absence of initial light syllables (iambic or 
trochaic). Thus there is a difference in metrical effect 
between Surrey's verses on p. 197, and Moore's 

" Fill the bumper fair ! 
Every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of care, 
Smooths away a wrinkle." 

The extra (light) syllable at the end is more important 
than at the beginning : thus it would make little differ- 
ence if we put an "O" before the word "Fill"; it 
would make considerable difference if we said "fairly " 
instead of "fair"; — not, of course, counting the loss 
of rime. Another alternation of endings is found in 
Shelley's Skylark (also with trochaic effect). — It is very 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 203 

common to combine the anapestic with the iambic 
movement, the dactylic with the trochaic ; but there is 
also much verse where all these distinctions, flimsy at 
best and only adopted for ease in classification, disap- 
pear, — and we must rely simply on the natural sense 
of harmony, the sympathy of an appreciative ear for 
the beat of free rhythm. _ This appreciation for rhythm 
is almost universal with children, but is often spoiled 
by too much analysis and bewildering theories ; no- 
body but a pedant could go wrong on the verses about 
Till and Tweed quoted on p. 146, but they refuse to fit 
into the metrical scheme of the schools. — Example of 
general anapestic movement : — 

" My heart is a breaking, dear Tfttie, 
Some counsel unto me come len 1 , 
To anger them a 1 is a pity, — 
But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen? " — Burns. 

For dactylic movement, cf. R. Browning's " Tltis is a 
spray the bird clung to." Irregular are parts of Shak- 
spere's song in Twelfth Night, n. 4 : — 

" Come away, come away, death, 

And in sad cypress let me be laid ; 
Fly away, fly away, breath ; 

I am slain by a fair cruel maid," etc. 

See, also, Shelley's beautiful lines " When the lamp is 
shattered." 

(d) Verse of Four Stresses. 

This is a measure long enough for continuous work, 
and admits of a decided rhythmic pause. Verse of four 
accents is popular in light epic (cf. Chaucer, Scott, etc.) 
as well as in lyric poetry. Coleridge (in Christabel)> 



204 POETICS. 

and after him, Scott and Byron, varied with anapestic 
feet the regular alternation of heavy and light syllables. 
But this freedom which Coleridge claimed as a " new 
principle " is old enough, though Coleridge certainly 
gave it popularity. In its regular forms the four-stress 
verse leans toward its French prototype, the "old eight- 
syllable " metre ; while in its freer guise it reminds us 
of the earliest popular English measures, and has 
decided echoes of Anglo-Saxon rhythm. This four- 
accent verse embraces such extremes as the regular 
"iambics" of In Memoriam : — 

" This truth came home with bier and pall, 
I feel it when I sorrow most, — 

and the triple measure of Burns' My Names Awa : — 

" Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o^r the braes," etc., 

in which we note the beginning-rime, as well as the 
rhythmic beat, of our old verse, and think of Laurence 
Minot's line (p. 180) : — 

" The boste of yowre baner es betin all downe." 

That wide-spread ballad, Lord Donald, or as Scott 
called it, Lord Randal, has the four-accent verse, and 
uses it with freedom : — 

" O where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my sdn? 

O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?" 
" I hae been to the wildwood ; mother make my bed soon, 

For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie doim." 

The third verse is very bold in the beginning of its 
second half: " mother" is slurred somewhat after the 
Anglo-Saxon fashion (cf. p. 175). 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 205 

Regular measures other than iambic are common : 
for trochaic, compare Cowper's Boadicea, Ben Jonson's 
Qziee7i and huntress, chaste and fair, Burns' Farewell to 
Nancy (feminine rimes), and the rimeless verse of Hia- 
watha. For anapestic, cf. Swinburne's chorus When 
the hounds of spring, on p. 170. Dactylic are Byron's 
lines, quoted by Guest : — 

" Warriors and chiefs, should the shaft or the sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord," etc. 

But even if we accept such grouping (only brevity, 
convenience, and custom can warrant the use of " dac- 
tylic," "trochaic," etc.) in regular measures, there re- 
mains an immense amount of four-accent verse — e.g., 
in L Allegro, as noted on p. 169 — which cannot be so 
classed, notwithstanding the fact that there is regular 
alternation of heavy and light syllables. The above 
measures were constant in beginning with a light or 
with a heavy syllable, and in carrying this through the 
whole poem. But variety is given to measures like the 
four-stress couplet by (1) the presence or absence of a 
light syllable before the first stress; (2) the presence or 
absence of a light syllable after the last stress (double 
or single ending) ; (3) occasional license in the distribu- 
tion of light syllables within the verse ; (4) use of the 
rhythmic pause. Dr. Guest has teased these light 
variations into the fetters of a useless system, and gives 
a table of definite combinations of " sections." Thus 
the couplet {L Allegro) : — 

11 And to the stack or the barn-door 
Stoutly struts his dames before " 



206 POETICS. 

is analyzed as AbbA : AbbA 

AbA:b Ab A; 
but this sort of labor amounts to little, and is like a 
classification of the successive waves that break on an 
ocean beach. . The verses are alike, but yet different. 
Their art lies in giving, amid all this variety of distribu- 
tion, a constant sense of four rhythmic " beats" or 
stresses, which does not exclude frequent transfer of 
weight among the syllables. Of course, nobody will 

read : — 

" And to' the stack' or the' barn door' ; " 

but Dr. Guest's "section " does not remove the difficulty, 
for he lays the stress on "And," " or" and makes "barn " 
light, whereas the real accents are "stack" — which is 
further emphasized by the following pause, — " barn" 
and "door" ; the first accent is divided between "And" 
and "to" ; "the" "or" and "the" have no accent at 
all. Or perhaps it is better to call "stack" "barn" 
and "door" the three main stresses, and let the fourth 
stress divide itself among the five small words. The 
next verse is much nearer to the metrical scheme of 
alternating light and heavy syllables, and has a pro- 
nounced trochaic movement. Hovering accent (a), and 
the well-known license of changing the distribution of 
accents after a pause (b), are both very common in such 

verse: — . . 

(a) " Robes loosely flowing, hair as free." 

(b) " Still to be neat, still to be drest." 
(b) " There to meet with Macbeth." 

Perhaps we should here read with the old license of 

dropping light syllables (cf. p. 175), and so emphasize 

the name : — 

44 There to meet with Macbeth:' 1 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 207 

Transposed accent is very prominent in Byron's line : — 

" Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves, 
And when ye fail my sight," etc. 

Reference has already (p. 196) been made to the pop- 
ularity of this measure in Shakspere's day ; and it is 
used constantly in modern lyric. — The triple measure 
— two light syllables to each stress — was also a favor- 
ite with Byron and with Moore, — as in the opening 
stanzas of the Bride of Abydos, and in certain poems 
of Lalla Rookh ; in our time, Swinburne combines 
double and triple measures with good result : — 

" There lived a singer in France of old 
By the tideless, dolorous, midland sea; 

In a land of sand and ruin and gold 
There shone one*woman and none but she."" 

Browning's measure is more dactylic : — 

" Where I find her not, beauties vanish ; 
Whither I follow her, beauties flee ; 

Is there no method to tell her in Spanish, 
June's twice June since she breathed it with me ? " 

— Garden Fancies. 

The combination of four-stress and three-stress verse 
in lyric poetry is extremely popular, and has already 
been noticed in the description of the Septenary and its 
later forms. Examples lie on every hand. There is a 
stately march to this measure in the iambic movement : 
cf. Shelley's chorus from Hellas : — 

" The world's great age begins anew, 
The golden years return."" 



208 POETICS. 

(e) Verse of Five Stresses. 

This commonest of English metres is met in the 
couplet, in the stanza, and in blank verse. The move- 
ment is prevailingly iambic ; that is, the metrical 
scheme calls for an opening light syllable and a closing 
stress-syllable ; in all, five stresses alternating regularly 
with five light syllables. But the laws of word-accent, 
the rhetorical emphasis, and the license of double end- 
ings, etc., so modify this scheme that we seldom find 
a perfect example of the measure (cf p. 172); but, on 
the other hand, there is no good poetry in this measure 
where the ear does not easily recognize the underlying 
rhythm of five beats, so distributed as to produce a 
general iambic movement. 

The popularity of this metr^ is easy to account for. 
It hits the golden mean, avoiding the too short and 
tripping effect of four-stress verse, which suits lyric 
poetry and light narrative, but is unfitted for the pur- 
poses of the epic and the drama ; and yet it does 
not fall into the monotonous pace of the Alexandrine 
with an invariable middle caesura. The odd number 
of measures or feet allows five-stress verse exqui- 
site variety in the position of its pause (cf. Chap. VI. 

§4). 

Compared with iambic, other movements of this 
verse are rare. For rimed trochaic, cf. Mr. Arnold's 
Tristram and Iseult, 11. : — 

" Fear me not, I will be always with thee ; 
I will watch thee, tend thee, soothe thy pain ; 
Sing thee tales of true, long-parted lovers 
♦ Join'd at evening of their days again.'" 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 20g 

Trochaic blank verse of five stresses we find in Brown- 
ing's One Word More : — 

" Oh, their Rafael of the dear Madonnas, 
Oh, their Dante of the dread Inferno, 
Wrote one song — and in my brain I sing it, 
Drew one angel — borne, see, on my bosom !" 

The same poet has written anapestic five-stress 

verse : — 

" And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell 
That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well.'" 

— Saul. 

Irregular is the metre of Moore's song — At the mid 
hour of night : — 

" Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear, 
When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear." 

A constant feminine or double ending gives a new 
character to iambic verse : as in Fletcher's part of 
Henry VIII. (Wolsey's famous speech, for example) ; 
and when combined with a less regular arrangement of 
accents, it becomes a quite different measure, — as in 
Lamb's Old Familiar Faces : — 

" I have had playmates, I have had companions, 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces." 



Turning to the more popular measure, we first make 
the broad distinction between rimed and rimeless verse. 
Rimed five-stress verse is common in many forms of 
the stanza — e.g., the metre of Spenser's Faery Qneene, 
the sonnet, the simple quatrain of Gray's Flegy, etc. 
What calls for most comment in these cases is the 



2IO POETICS. 

stanzaic form ; the rules for the individual verse present 
no difficulties. But when we come to the simplest 
rimed form of this measure, the "heroic" couplet, we 
must distinguish between the rhetorical and clear-cut 
verse of Dryden or Pope, and the verse of those poets 
who, according to the modest claim of Keats, "stammer 
where old Chaucer used to sing." The latter verse 
strives for variety and a "fluid" movement. Let us 
take Pope in his best vein, his brilliant, rhetorical vein, 
in that climax at the end of the Dunciad which .Dr. John- 
son and Thackeray have both praised so strongly : — 

. " See skulking truth to her old cavern fled, 
Mountains of casuistry heap'd o'er her head ! 
Philosophy that lean'd on heaven before, 
Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. 
Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, 
And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense ! 
See Mystery to Mathematics fly ! 
In vain ! they gaze, turn giddy, rave, and die. 
Religion blushing, veils her sacred fires, 
And unawares Morality expires. 
Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine ; 
Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine ! 
Lo ! thy dread empire, Chaos ! is restored ; 
Light dies before thy uncreating word ; 
Thy hand, great Anarch ! lets the curtain fall, 
And universal darkness buries all." 

Pope does not belong to our greatest poets ; but for 
brilliant workmanship, for mingled ease and vigor in 
handling verse, he is without a superior; and the above 
extract merits careful study and a consequent insight 
into the grace and strength of its construction. For 
technical points, we note in Pope a careful observance 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 211 

of word-accent ; insistance on the rhetorical emphasis ; 
a verse mostly, and a couplet always, u end-stopt." The 
verse is protected from monotony by the matchless ease 
with which it is handled, and by the variety of tone and 
rime. Like Dryden's, Pope's verse tends to split into 
half-verses with two stresses in each ; see the antitheti- 
cal lines quoted on p. 126. m 

But much as we admire this brilliant verse, our trib- 
ute ceases with admiration. It is the other verse, the 
verse of Marlowe and Keats, that claims our sympathy 
and touches the heart. We will take no particularly 
beautiful or famous passage, but simply quote a few 
lines from Keat's Endymion : — 

" Now while the silent workings of the dawn 
Were busiest, into that self-same lawn 
All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped 
A troop of little children garlanded ; 
Who, gathering round the altar, seemed to pry 
Earnestly round, as wishing to espy 
Some folk of holiday : nor had they waited 
For many moments, ere their ears were sated 
With a faint breath of music, which even then 
Fill'd out its voice, and died away again." 

This is not faultless, like Pope's work ; there is a 
repetition, and we note some awkwardness ; but we for- 
give all that to the verse, quia multum amavit. It has 
its "eye on the object," not on the public to see whether 
applause is coming. Technically, we mark the run-on 
lines, and a tendency to irregularity in the weight of 
accented syllables (sped: garlanded). Highly finished 
modern work in this metre will be found in the Prelude 
to Swinburne's Tristram of Lyonessc, especially in the 
list of love-sisrns of the different months ; as for older 



212 POETICS. 

verse, the exquisite music of Marlowe's Hero and Lean- 
der (first two Sestiads : the rest are Chapman's) has 
never been surpassed by any couplets in our literature. 
With regard to rimed " heroic " verse in general, it 
is to be noted that the very fact of rime tends to make 
the metre regular. Licenses are far more frequent in 
blank verse, — for example, light endings, which are 
thrown into unpleasant prominence by rime, but slip 
by smoothly enough in rimeless poetry. At the begin- 
ning of a stanza, they are not so rare : cf. Don Juan, 
iv. : — 

" Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 
Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail ; 
The blank grey was not made to blast their hair," etc. 

Other licenses are of the ordinary kind. Thus, after 
or with a pause, either of an entire verse, or of a rhyth- 
mic section of a verse, English poetry favors (a) a tro- 
chaic license, and (b) extra syllables. A modern ear 
hardly allows Surrey's 

" Whoso gladly halseth the golden meane," 
or even 

" Brittle beautie, that nature made so fraile ; " 

but any verse may begin with a stress-syllable ; and the 
same is true of the verse-section after a pause : — 

" O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert ! " — Shelley, Adonais, 

or with very faint caesura : — 

" What softer voice is hushed over the dead? " 

— Shelley, Adonais. 
For extra syllables : — 

" I see before me the gladiator lie.*" — Byron. 

" I heard thee in the garden, and of thy voice.'" — Milton. 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 213 

Slurring is common: especially with "of the/' " in 
the," etc. In Tennyson's blank verse we have a not 
unpleasant cadence : — 

" Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable, 
Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, 
High in her chamber up a tower to the east" etc., 

or in the verse : — 

" Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawns. 1 ' 

Blank Verse. — Shakspere and Milton. 

We shall take Shakspere as representative of dra- 
matic blank verse, and Milton for the epic. Shakspere 
uses five-stress verse to the almost total exclusion of 
other kinds. Exceptions are made by Sonnet 145, by 
the songs referred to above, and by some occasional six- 
stress and seven-stress verse {e.g., in Loves Labour 's 
Lost). His dramas are written mainly in rimeless 
verse; the narrative poems {Lucrece, Venus and Adonis), 
and sonnets, in rimed stanzas. The early plays show 
the most rime. In the Winter s Tale there is no rimed 
verse at all ; in the Tempest there is one riming couplet : 
these are both late plays. But in Love s Labour s Lost, 
one of the earliest plays, there are more than one thou- 
sand riming verses ; in Mid. Night s Dream, over 850. 
Taking a play of the middle period, say Julius Ccesar, 
which represents neither extreme of the poet's develop- 
ment, we find 2,241 lines of blank verse to 34 rimed 
lines. 1 It follows that our main concern will be with 
the laws of Shakspere's blank verse. 

1 All these figures are taken from Fleay's table, Trans. New Skaks. Soc. 
1. p. 16. 



214 POETICS. 

The chief thing to remember in reading Shakspere's 
verses is that they were made for the ear, not for the 
eye. The poet who 

" For gain, not glory, wing'd his roving flight, 
And grew immortal in his own despite," 

had, when he wrote, little regard for his future com- 
mentators' rule-of-thumb scansion, but a great regard 
for the pleasure his rhythm would give to the hearers 
at the theatre. It is the general effect of the lines, 
their musical flow, which we take into account ; though 
we must pay some attention to the individual elements 
of the verse. 

Rhythm is natural, and appeals to an inborn instinct 
for harmony ; therefore, if we can know how Shakspere 
sounded his words, that is, if we become thoroughly 
acquainted with the material in which he worked, it 
will not be difficult to make his verses melodious to 
our ears. Hence, contracted or expanded words must 
be understood, as well as the Elizabethan woi'd-accent, 
which in some cases differed from modern usage. For 
the rest, we must allow Shakspere, as we allowed 
Chaucer, freedom to slur ; and what Gascoigne said in 
his day about Chaucer, we, who stand much in the 
same relation to Shakspere, may apply to the latter 
poet : " Who so euer do peruse and well consider his 
[Chaucer's] workes, he shall finde that although his 
lines are not alwayes of one selfe same number of Syl- 
lables, yet beyng redde by one that hath understanding, 
the longest verse and that which hath most Syllables in 
it, will fall (to the eare) correspondent unto that whiche 
hath fewest sillables in it : and like wise that whiche 
hath in it fewest syllables, shal be founde yet to consist 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 21 5 

of woordes that have such naturall sounde, as may 
seeme equall in length to a verse which hath many moe 
sillables of lighter accentes." (Arber's Reprint, Cer- 
tayne Notes, etc., p. 34.) In other words, a skilful poet 
can vary the distribution of his accents and add (light) 
syllables to his verse, yet preserve intact the rhythm 
which his chosen scheme demands. He can also drop 
a light syllable and let pause or emphasis make up for 
the loss, as we shall see below. In the verse, — 

" The senate hath sent about three several quests " 

(Oth. 1. 11. 46), 

it is not necessary to contract "senate" to "sen't," and 
so make an unpleasant repetition in the next foot. The 
word is slurred, or rapidly pronounced, and the verse 
satisfies our ear. Ellis gives examples of this slurring 
in all parts of the verse. From his list of " Trisyllabic 
Measures" (Early Eng. Pron., p. 941) and from Abbott, 
we select a few cases; the first is Guest's " slovenly" 
rhythm : — 

" I beseech your graces both to pardon her." — Rich. III. 1. 1. 

"Let me see, let me see ; is not the leaf turn'd down?" 

-J. Civ. 3. 
" At any time have recottrse unto the princes. 1 ' 

— Rich. III. in. 5. 

" Deliver this with modesty to the queen. 1 ' 

— Hen. VIII. 11. 2. 

" Except immortal Caesar speaking of Brutus." — y. C.I. 1. 

There is no need to do violence to these words, and 
read F seech, let m see (say, lerri see I), 'course (Abbott), 
etc. It is rapid pronunciation, not suppression of the 
sounds in question, which satisfies the metre. Indeed, 



2l6 POETICS. 

in the fourth example we may pronounce modesty with 
distinctness, for the third syllable borrows a part of the 
stress and importance of the next rhythmic accent, 
which is the weak word to. A slight rhythmic pause 
after modesty also countenances the added syllable. 
We shall find that Milton uses this license very often. 
Contractions, of course, are common enough in Shak- 
spere : this is to this ; I will to /'//, as now, — and the 
like (see below) ; but trisyllabic measures, at least with 
slurred syllables, are also frequent in Shakspere, and 
cannot be explained away. As regards double and 
triple endings, the former are often found, but Shak- 
spere is not half so fond of them as Fletcher is, who 
uses them in continuous verse, and the latter poet's 
share in Hen. VIII. can be marked off by the use of 
this simple test. In Hamlet, out of 3,924 verses, 508 
have double endings ; in Hen. VIII there are 1,195 out 
of 2,754 (Fleay). Triple endings are rare and mostly 
can be contracted or slurred : — 

" I dare avouch it, -sir; what, fifty followers f " — Lear, 11. 4. 

Fletcher, Pilgrim (Ward) : — 

' « The wind blows thro' the leaves and plays with V^." 
Fleay cites Middleton : — 

" As wild and merry as the heart of innocence." 

It is not easy to say just where slurring ends and full 
contraction takes place. In 

" To entertain it so merrily with a fool" (AlPs Well, II. 2), 

the it is perhaps to be contracted (entertain t), while 
merrily is slurred. Cf. Hamlet, 1. 1 : — 

" That hath a stomach in't : which is no other." 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 21*] 

We may distinguish between the contraction of two 
words into one, and the contraction of a single word 
into fewer syllables. Contracted to one word are in Ids 
(= ins), of his (= o's), they have ( = they've, as now), 
and the like : e.g. : — 

' 'The morning comes upon us ; we'll leave you, Brutus," 

where, however, an extra syllable could easily be 
sounded before the pause. So God b y wi you, as in 
Hamlet, n. I (Browne) : — 

" R. My lord, I have. 
P. God be with you, fare you well." 

So by our and by your, to byr. — Lastly, final r easily 
runs into a following initial vowel or h, — thus, Cym. 
in. 4: — 

" Report should render him hourly to your ear." 

But contraction often takes place within the word. 
Thus prefixes are dropped. Cf. 'count for account in 
Ham. iv. 4 : — 

" Why to a public count I could not go." 

Many other cases are given by Abbott, Shahs. Gram. § 
460. Other bold contractions are ignomy for ignominy, 
canstick for candlestick, etc. Many modern English 
proper names are similarly contracted : cf. Cholmonde- 
ley. Again, a " liquid " consonant followed by a vowel 
is easily contracted ; spirit is mostly one syllable in 
Shakspere : cf. the metathesis sprite. So also parlous 
(= perilous) ; punishment (slurring is more probable 
here) ; barbarous ; promising : indeed, any light syllable 
which comes between primary and secondary accent 
(cf. in Chaucer's metres, p. 190), or the weakest syllable 



2l8 POETICS. 

among several^ can either be slurred or drop out alto- 
gether : speculative (speclative) ; medicine ; sanctuary y 
etc. In such cases as these, almost any one with a 
good ear will "scan" the verse correctly enough with- 
out instruction. It is not proposed to give here a list 
of Shakspere's slurred and contracted words ; — for de- 
tails, cf. Abbott, and also Notes on Shakspere } s Versifica- 
tion, by G. H. Browne, A.M. 1 We add a few common 
cases : whether to wher: — 

" And see whether Brutus be alive or dead." — J. C. v. 5. 

So devil, marvel (to marie in Ben Jonson), needle 
(neele) ; also contracted is final -ed after t or d: exe- 
cuted to execute ; exceeded to exceed' ; mistrusted to 
mistrust 1 ; fitted to fitt\ etc. Similarly, the possessive 
or the plural -s is dropped after -se, -ce, etc. : — . 

" I'll to him; he is hid at Laurence 1 cell." — R. 6° J, in. 2. 

On the other hand, many words which are monosyl- 
lables to us could be so expanded m. Shakspere's time 
that they either were actually dissyllabic, or else were 
so prolonged as to have the same effect : this is inde- 
pendent of the pause, which may itself take the place 
of a syllable. Then, too, an emphatic monosyllable, 
without any pause or any expansion at all, may fill out 
a " foot " ; thus, in As You Like Lt, in. 4, — 

" Bring I us to this sight, and you shall say,'^ 

Bring seems to be sufficient through its rhetorical and 
syntactical emphasis ; and the emendations of Pope, 
Malone, and others are needless. Still more certain is 

1 Boston: Girm, Heath, & Co. 1884. 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 219 

the case where an emphatic pause follows the monosyl- 
lable, as in the often quoted verse (R. II. i. 3) : — 

" Stay ! the king hath thrown his warder down." 

There is not the slightest need to pronounce "sta-ay," 
or even "stay-j" (Browne); for the sharp exclamation 
is spoiled by dwelling on the diphthong. On the con- 
trary, " O ! " is so prolonged, and takes the place of two j 
syllables : — 

" O the difference of man and man.'" — Lear, in. 7. 

It does not become two syllables (O-o), but is simply 
prolonged, as in the natural cry of wonder or protest. 
So we would read Macb. 1.2: — 

" 'Gainst my captivity. Hail! brave friend." 

The liquids, r, /, etc., lend themselves readily to 
expansions, being used now as consonants, now as 
vowels : — 

" That croaks the fatal ent(e)rance of Duncan." — Macb. 1. 5. 

" Look how he makes to Caesar ! mar-k him. — y. C. 111. 1. 

" I know a bank where the wild thyme blows." 1 

— M.2V. D. 11. 1. 

"And mean to make her queen of Eng(e)land." 

— R. HI. iv. 4. 

The termination -ion in Shakspere counts either as one 
syllable or as two ; so also -ier (sold-i-er), -iant, -ean> 
etc., e.g. : — 

il By the o^rgrowth of some complexion." — Haml. I. 4. 
" Your mind is tossing on the ocean" — M. of V. 1. 1. 

1 Note in this verse, as in Macb. I. 2 above, how the single syllable in 
question is helped by the hovering accents and heavy stresses that follow. 



220 POETICS. 

Cf. Milton: — 

" Whispering new joys to the mild oc-e-an." — Nativ. Hymn. 

Then, too, the old inflexional endings still asserted 
themselves here and there ; e.g., the noun ach-es : 
Temp. i. 2 : — 

" Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar." 

Accent. — In reading Shakspere, we often have to 
throw the accent of a word either forward or back of its 
modern place. Lists of such words, and lines where 
they occur, are given by Ellis (verses are simply re- 
ferred to, not quoted) E. E. P. p. 930, and by Abbott, 
Gram. §§ 490 ft. Many cases show undoubted differ- 
ence from modern usage : thus Aliena (proper name), 
revenue, a7xh f bishop, confessor, persever, etc. 

" Ay do persever, counterfeit sad looks." — M. N. D. in. 2. 

This is quite natural if we consider what a shifting 
thing " pronunciation " is when it deals with words 
derived from foreign sources, and if we recall the fact 
that the foreign accent at once enters into strife with 
the Germanic impulse to accent the root-syllable, or 
when that is not evident, the first syllable. But we 
find Shakspere, as we found Chaucer, accenting a word 
now one way, now another, as the metre demands (cf. 
p. 192) ; and we conclude that in many cases use may 
be made of the hovering accent previously mentioned. 
Thus in W. T. iv. 4, — 

" Mark our contract ; mark your divorce, young sir," 

we need not throw the entire weight of accent on -tract. 
The stress may be divided ; though in this case, the 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 221 

second syllable has a slight preponderance. Take other 
verses : — 

" That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel. 1 ' 

— Haml. i. 4. 

" His means of death, his obscure funeral." — Haml. iv. 5. 

" Now for the honour of the forlorn French." 

— 1 Hen. VI. 1. 2. 

" / myself fight not once in forty years." — 1 Hen. VI. 1. 3. 

In these we have undoubted hovering accent. While 

the difference is stronger in {Haml., i. 4) 

" Why thy canonized bones, hearsed in death " ; 

nevertheless, in cases like 

" O Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes" {R. III. iv. 4), 
" That comes in triumph over Caesar's blood " {J. C. 1. 1), 

we have practically the same word-accent, though the 
metre makes a slight counter-claim in the first example; 
— in other words, it is not necessary to shift the entire 
stress from the first to the second syllable. 

We have already noted the license given to English 
blank verse by the patcse, — whether it be the end of 
the verse or the so-called "caesura." Thus two stress- 
syllables may come together, provided the pause inter- 
venes ; as in 

44 Be in their flowing cups \ freshly remember'd" 

(H. V. iv. 3) ; 
and with a slight rhythmic pause in 

" See how my sword | weeps for the poor king's death." 

— 3H. VI. v. 6. 

Again, an extra syllable is frequent before a pause. 
An excellent example, giving this license both within 



222 POETICS. 

the line and at the end ("feminine " or double ending) 
is — 

" Obey and be attentat : canst thou remember ?" 

— Temp. I. 2. 

Shakspere does not allow this extra syllable at the end 
to be a monosyllable: Fletcher, however, is fond of 
such endings, and we find many in his part of Hen. 
VIII., e.g.: — 

** Fell by our servants, by those men we loVd most" 

Occasionally Shakspere slips into an Alexandrine ; 
and while many of these can be explained away by 
contraction or slurring, there still remain a few un- 
doubted cases, — small wonder, considering the popu- 
larity of the measure in the Sixteenth Century, and the 
freedom with which Shakspere handles his dramatic 
material. 

It is the mutual relations of the metrical scheme and 
the word-groups which give character to rhythm. We 
have already noticed this strife between type and indi- 
vidual, between unity and variety, and the beauty 
which results when a true poet is in the question. 
Now we can see a decided growth in Shakspere's art of 
verse-making, a steady progress from the fetters of 
slavish obedience. to his metrical scheme, towards the 
strong and chainless music of his later verse. From 
Loves Labour s Lost with " unstopt " to " end-stopt " in 
the proportion of I : 18.14, to The Winter s Tale with 
1 : 2.12, is a long stride ; it means that our highest dra- 
matic art found its best instrument in a metre which 
allowed all possible variety of word-groups. Mr. Sped- 
ding (Trans. New Shaks. Soc. 1874, 1. p. 30) gives the 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 223 

same subject ("the face of a beautiful woman just 
dead ") as treated by Shakspere at different periods ; 
thus Rom. & Jul. (say 1597) : — 

" Her blood is settled and her joints are stiff. 
Life and those lips have long been separated. 
Death lies on her like an untimely frost 
Upon the fairest flower of all the field." 

Cf. Antony & Cleop. (say 1607) : — 

" If they had swallowed poison, 'twould appear 
By external swelling : but she looks like sleep, 
As she would catch another Antony 
In her strong toil of grace. 11 

Aside from the gain in vigor of style shown by the 
second extract, note the freedom of movement and the 
strength and variety imparted by the shifting pause. 
Note, too, the trisyllabic opening of the second verse of 
the same extract. 

Another feature of Shakspere's later work is his use 
of light and weak endings : light being such words as 
am, are, be, can, could, — do, does, has, had (as auxilia- 
ries), — /, they, thou ; weak are words like and, for, from, 
if, ill, of, or (Dowden). 1 " In Macbeth light endings 
appear for the first time in considerable numbers ; weak 
endings in considerable numbers for the first time in 
Antony and Cleopatra." The same progress is seen in 
the poet's increasing use of double endings. 

So much for a very meagre outline of Shakspere's 
versification. We have assumed throughout (1) that 
the regular metrical scheme of five accented syllables, 
alternating regularly with five unaccented syllables, is 
valid only so far as it makes the foundation and ground- 

1 See also Trans. N. Shaks. Soc. 1874, II. p. 448. 



224 POETICS. 

plan of the rhythm, and is so modified by word-accent, 
rhetorical accent, quantity, and tone, that it can rarely, 
if ever, be applied with literal exactness to the concrete 
verse ; but that (2) it is certainly present as the skeleton 
of the verse, can always be detected by the ear, and is 
our one test of correct rhythm. 



Milton s Verse. 

The sonorous roll of Miltonic rhythm is unique in 
our poetry, although it has enticed countless bardlings 
to a superficial imitation whose inversion and verbosity 
resemble Milton's work as tinsel resembles silver. But 
in Milton's hands epic blank verse becomes worthy of 
such praise as this from Mr. Arnold : 1 "To this metre, 
as used in the Paradise Lost, our country owes the 
glory of having produced one of the only two poetical 
works in the grand style which are to be found in the 
modern languages ; the Divine Comedy of Dante is the 
other." The verse thus highly praised can present no 
difficulties to a sympathetic ear which allows the free- 
dom of slurring, the variety of the pause, and the use 
of hovering accent. Occasionally there is transposed 
accent, but mostly in its usual place after the pause. 
The "inversions" are matters of style. 

Often Milton's hovering accent is very subtile, and 

Mr. Arnold has somewhere made it a test of one's ear 

for metre whether or not one finds good rhythm in the 

last verse of the passage : — 

" Those other two equal'd with me in fate, 
So were I equal'd with them in renown, 

1 On Translating Homer, III. 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 225 

Blind Thamyris and blind Maeonides, 
And Tiresias and Phineus, prophets old" 

In this last verse, which the ear of Bentley rejected as 
bad metre, the rhythm accents Ti-resias (slurring of /), 
the word accents Tire-sias ; but the first syllable is a 
diphthong and is helped by its quantity, so that with 
hovering accent the verse " scans " admirably. Cf. 
Shelley's verse : — 

" The blue Mediterranean, where he lay." — West Wind. 

A case of accent changed after a pause is 

"Floats as they pass, fanned with unnumbered plumes.' 1 

— Par. Lost, 7. 
Slurring is frequently used : — 

" How quick they wheel'd, and flying behind them shot." 

— Par. Reg. 
" Your military obedience, to dissolve." 

" Thy condescens/tf/2 and shall be honor' d ever." 

" A pillar of state : deep on his front engraven." 

As Romeo and Juliet, with its soft cadences, is to the 
vigorous stride of Shakspere's last plays, so is the Co- 
mus of Milton to his Paradise Lost. In Comics the 
versification is exquisite, full of such movement as — 

" What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that, 
Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the 7Jiom f " 
or 

" O welcome, pure-eyM Faith, white-handed Hope, 
Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings ! " 

This verse is full of the beauty of Elizabethan rhythm ; 
but there is a splendor, a majesty, in the later epic, for 
which we have no adjective but "Miltonic." Cf. with 
the above extracts this from Paradise Lost (Book VI.) : — 



226 POETICS. 

(i) " Servant of God, well done, well hast thou fought 

(2) The better fight, who single hast maintain'd 

(3) Against revolted multitudes the cause 

(4) Of truth, in word mightier than they in arms ; 

(5) And for the testimony of truth hast borne 

(6) Universal reproach, far worse to bear 

(7) Than violence." 

Note the distribution of the pauses; the "run-on" lines, 
which, according to Dr. Johnson, "change the measures 
of a poet to the periods of a declaimer," but, for our 
ears, give vigor as well as variety to the verse ; the 
shifting of accents, — as in (4) where the real rhythmi- 
cal pause is after word, and so allows transposed accent 
in the next foot; the hovering accent (1) will done ; the 
slurring of (4) (5) -ier and -ny of ; and the light accent 
in (5) on And for, which allows extra emphasis for the 
following phrase. Other examples of a very weak initial 
accent are (Guest, p. 239) : — 

" By the waters of life, where'er they sat. 1 ' 
" To the garden of bliss thy seat prepared." 

Here, with hovering accent for waters ox garden, thus 
dwelling on the chief word, we can help the metre, 
which to Guest's ear was "far from pleasing." The 
most famous license, however, is (6) : — 

" Universal reproach, far worse to bear." 

Read with proper emphasis, this verse is not at all 
unpleasing; indeed, the metre helps the sense (= " re- 
proach on all sides, — absolute"). The very pronounced 
pause after reproach throws the emphatic words into 
prominence ; and altogether we may call this admirable 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 227 

metrical workmanship. " Trochaic," entirely, is a well- 
known line in Keats' Hyperion : — 

" Thea, Thea, Thea, where is Saturn?" 

Again, Guest objects to the verse, — 

" Beyond the polar circle : to them, day," 

because it lays too much stress on a weak word to; but 
by applying the principle of hovering accent, the verse 
is harmonious enough : — 

" Beyond the polar circle : to them day," etc. 

Finally, there can be lines when it is almost impossi- 
ble to talk of light or heavy syllables : — 

" Rocks, caves, lakes, fens, bogs, dens, and shades of death." 

With this, we leave English Blank Verse ; but no 
account of it can afford to forget the splendid promise 
and melody of Keats' fragment, Hyperion : 

'•' Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight, 
And burned is Apollo's laurel bough." 

(/) Verse of Six Stresses. 

The Alexandrine has already been noticed. Popular 
at the beginning of Queen Elizabeth's reign, it was 
gradually thrust aside by heroic verse ; though Drav- 
ton's Polyoibion (1612) employs it consistently. When 
we read a little of this poem, we understand why the 
metre lost ground in spite of the efforts of so able a 
poet. 

" Of Albion's glorious isle the wonders whilst I write, 
The sundry varying soils, the pleasures infinite, 



228 POETICS. 

Where heat kills not the cold, nor cold expels the heat, 
The calms too mildly small, nor winds too roughly great, 
Nor night doth hinder day, nor day the night doth wrong ; 
The summer not too short, the winter not too long." 

But combined with heroic verse at the end of a stanza, 
as in Spenser, or incidental to the regular couplet, as 
in Dryden, the Alexandrine has a pleasant effect : — 

" So pale grows Reason in Religion's sight, 
So dies and so dissolves in supernatural light" 

The Alexandrine is iambic ; a trochaic movement in 
six-stress verse gives a stately or mournful effect, — as 
in Swinburne's lines : — 

" Dark the shrine and dumb the fount of song thence welling, 
Save for words more sad than tears of blood, that said : 
Tell the king, on earth has fallen the glorious dwelling, 
And the watersprings that spake are quenched and dead." 

Irregular six-stress verse is met in couplet and stanza : 

" Out of the golden remote wild west where the sea without shore is, 
Full of the sunset, and sad, if at all, with the fulness of joy, 
As a wind sets in with the autumn that blows from the region of 

stories, 
Blows with a perfume of songs and of memories beloved from a 

boy." 

Cf. the metre of the opening stanzas of Tennyson's 
Maud, and the strong verse of Morris' Sigurd the 
Volszmg. 

Here, finally, belongs the so-called Hexameter. It is, 
of course, quite clear that the actual classic hexameter 
cannot be imitated in English verse ; that is plain to 
any one who can distinguish quantity from accent. 
Nor can we reproduce the full effect of the classic hex- 
ameter by the simple substitution of accented for long 
syllables, and unaccented for short. But there is no 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 229 

reason why we cannot, by such a substitution, imitate 
the general movement of the old metre. The English 
verse thus obtained becomes a measure which may 
please some and displease others, and is to be judged 
precisely as we judge the Alexandrine or any given 
verse-system. For surely, if we, with our English 
sounds and English accents and dull ear for exact pro- 
portions of quantity, can read aloud with pleasure (the 
test of an agreeable metre) the verse of Homer or 
Vergil, it follows that a verse of similar effect in move- 
ment can be obtained in our own language ; the differ- 
ence between the two metres will be the difference 
between the structure of English and the structure of 
Greek or of Latin, together with the loss of delicate 
quantity-relations, which, indeed, are with classical 
scholars rather thought than felt. This is a loss ; but 
it is absurd to maintain that we cannot transfer to 
English verse the general movement (i.e., the distri- 
bution of verse-accents) of classic hexameter. The 
trouble lies in the lack of any good English substitute 
for the classic spondee ( ) ; whereas the purely dac- 
tylic hexameter, without relief through spondaic effects, 
is, in the long run, monotonous. Perhaps this is what 
made Platen, the German poet, declare the hexameter 
"fit only for short poems." Mr. Arnold, however, says 
" Solvitur ambulando" ; and wants us to practise hexa- 
meters till we can make perfect ones. Certainly, if we 
look at early attempts in this metre, we can gather 
comfort for our own condition and hope for the future. 
Nash said of certain hexameter verse of his day : "that 
drunken, staggering kind of verse, which is all up hill 
and down hill . . . and goes like a horse plunging 



23O POETICS. 

through the mire in the deep of winter, now soused up 
to the saddle, and straight aloft on his tip-toes. ,, Cam- 
pion more gravely says that such verse is not successful 
because " the concurse of monosillables make (sic) our 
verses unapt to slide." Now Nash, when he made his 
comparison, was thinking of one Richard Stanyhurst's 
translation (Leyden, 1582 : now reprinted by Arber) of 
four books of the sEneid into what he called hexa- 
meters, — of which Nash further remarked that it was 
"a foule, lumbring, boystrous, wallowing measure." 
Take the opening of Book II., which will make the 
reader quite agree with Nash : — 

"T " Wyth tentiue lystning eeche wight was setled in harckning, 
Thus father ^neas chronicled from lofty bed hautye. 
You me bid, O Princesse, too scarrify a festered old soare." 

But there were far better specimens even at that time ; 
thus Greene : — 

" Oft have I heard my lief Coridon report on a love-day 
When bonny maids do meet with the swains in the valley by 
Tempe." 

Klopstock (to come to more modern times) chose the 
hexameter for the metre of his German Paradise Lost, 
the Messias ; Goethe often used it, — e.g., in Her- 
mann und Dorothea; and, for English, Longfellow's 
Evangeline ', Clough's Bothie of Tober-na- Vuolick, and 
(perhaps best of all) Kingsley's Andro7neda, at least 
should make us recognize this measure as a belligerent, 
though some writers speak of the English hexameter as 
a proved failure. To these practical examples, add Mr. 
Arnold's critical remarks in his Essay on Translating 
Homer. We have no space to enter into the discussion. 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 23 I 

But we may point out that besides the lack of spondaic 
effect, there is often a false accent in hexameter verse 
which ought to be carefully avoided : thus 

"In that delightful land which is washed by the Delaware's waters," 

if read metrically, has an almost ludicrous effect. Bet- 
ter is 

" Bent like a laboring oar which toils in the surf of the ocean." 

Then, too, the pause should be varied ; occasionally 
two pauses in a verse have a pleasant effect : — 

" Night after night, when the world was asleep, as the watchman 
repeated." 

(g) Verse of Seven Stresses. 

This has already been noticed in the ballad measure 
(cf. Chapman's translation), both in its original form, 
and in the popular arrangement of four- and -three, 
whether with or without rimed pause-accents. 



A verse of more than eight stresses can in nearly all 
cases be separated into two verses of four stresses each. 
Tennyson's Locksley Hall, however, is best printed as 
eight-stress verse : thus 

" Full of sad experience, moving toward the stillness of his rest " 

is better than 

" Full of sad experience, moving 
Toward the stillness of his rest." 

Cf also Poe's Raven, which has interior rime. 



232 POETICS. 

(k) Miscellaneous. 

Imitations of classic metres are not confined to 
hexameter verse. The " elegiac " verse, in which 
" pentameter " alternated with " hexameter," has been 
occasionally tried by English poets, but not so much as 
in Germany ; Coleridge's translation from Schiller is 
well known : — 

" In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column, 
In the pentameter aye falling in melody back." 

Tennyson has some "Alcaics" to Milton: — 

" O mighty-mduth'd inventor of harmonies, 
O skilPd to sing of time or eternity, 
God-gifted organ voice of England, 
Milton, a name to resound for ages ! " 

Milton himself has very gracefully Englished one of 
Horace's Odes (1. 5) : — 

" What slender youth bedew'd with liquid odours 
Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave, 
Pyrrha ? For whom bind'st thou 
In wreaths thy golden hair? " 

Compare with this the exquisite Ode to Evening of 
Collins. 

The difficult " Hendecasyllabic " verse, as used by the 
Roman Catullus, has been imitated by Coleridge, Ten- 
nyson, and Swinburne. The latter poet has even es- 
sayed the "Choriambic" verse: — 

" Love, what | ailed thee to leave | life that was made | lovely, we 
thought I with love? 
What sweet | visions of sleep | lured thee away | down from the 
light I abdve?" 



METRES OF ENGLISH VERSE. 233 

Bulwer wrote a collection of stories, The Lost Tales 
of Miletus y all in classical metres ; nor must we forget 
the rimeless rhythm of Southey, as in Thalaba, or of 
Matthew Arnold, as in The Strayed Reveller, and the 
highly successful choruses (with sporadic rime) of the 
Samson Agonistes. 

But it may be said, notwithstanding these cases, that 
with the possible exception of the hexameter, the move- 
ment of classical metres does not harmonize with the 
fundamental conditions of Germanic rhythm. 



234 POETICS. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

§ I. THE STANZA, OR STROPHE. 

This is a subject which presents few difficulties ; for 
the construction of a stanza appeals to the eye, and 
cannot be mistaken. A verse is the unit of every 
poem. Verses are combined in two ways, — either 
continuously, as in blank verse, the classic hexameter, 
and our Anglo-Saxon metre ; or they may be bound 
together in a stanza, which in its turn goes with other 
stanzas to make up a poem or a division of a poem. 
The simplest of these combinations is the couplet, 
which, however, in practice is not looked on as a stan- 
za ; for the heroic couplet often has a continuous, epic 
effect. Next comes the triplet, which is decidedly stan- 
zaic in effect : cf. Tennyson's Two Voices, 

Strophe means literally "a turning": cf. verse. At 
the end of the strophe we turn, and repeat the same 
conditions : it is " the return of the song to the melody 
with which it begins." Stanza, under another symbol, 
means the same thing. We demand for the stanza 
identity of structure and a close connection of state- 
ment and subject-matter. The two factors of the stanza 
are the Refrain and Rime. Thus Lamb's Old Familiar 
Faces has no rime ; but the recurrence of these three 
words marks the end of a strophe. The Refrain, ac- 
cording to Wolff (Lais, Sequenzen, etc.), " probably 
arose from the participation of the people or congrega- 
tion in songs which were sung by one or more persons 
on festal occasions, — at church, play, or dance. The 






THE STANZA, OR STROPHE. 235 

whole people repeated in chorus single words, or verses, 
or whole stanzas ... or in the pauses of the chief 
singer, they answered him with some repeated cry. . . . 
This became finally a regular form.'' Through the 
Provencal poetry these refrains came into England. 
They are common in the old folk-song, and the reader 
is familiar with them in many modern ballads ; cf. also 
the Epithalamion. The refrain may be in another 
tongue : cf. Byron's Maid of Athens. 

But the prevailing method of combining verses is by 
end-rime; and here we distinguish between stanzas 
where the verses are homogeneous, and stanzas made 
up of verses with a varying number of accents, though 
rarely with varying movement. It would require a vol- 
ume to catalogue all the combinations in our poetry ; 
any one can easily determine the form of a stanza for 
himself by noting the order of rimes. A decidedly 
different effect is made by two stanzas which may be 
alike in movement and number of verses, but unlike 
in rime-order. Thus the common four-stress quatrain 
with alternate rime (the number four being very popu- 
lar in lyric poetry) : 

" How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not another's will ; 
Whose armour is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his highest skill," 

has a quite different effect from the arrangement of the 
hi Memoriam stanza, — a combination found in Ben 
Jonson, Prior, Lord Herbert of Cherbury, and others: — 

" Now rings the woodland loud and long, 
The distance takes a lovelier hue, 
And drown'd in yonder living blue 
The lark becomes a sightless song." 









236 . POETICS. 

The first we denote by the letters abab ; the second by 
abba. Still another variation is a aba, the stanza made 
popular in Fitzgerald's translation of the quatrains of 
Omar Khayyam. 

But of these the simplest and by all odds the most 
popular is the first, — abab ; or with only two rimes, 
abcb. Here, too, we may note another division of the 
simple stanza (cf. Schipper, p. 84). The rimes bb mark 
each the end of a " Period," — i.e., they denote the neces- 
sary rime of the quatrain, and hence divide it into equal 
parts. Two verses make a period, two periods make a 
quatrain (if of this form), because one period exactly 
repeats the conditions of the other. To mark the end 
of this period, a different ending is often employed : 
thus, if a a (or a c) are masculine, b b will be feminine, 
and vice versa. Thus abcb (Burns) : — 

" Go fetch to me a pint o 1 wine, 
And fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go 
A service to my bonnie lassie ; M 

or abab (Prior) : — 

" The merchant, to secure his treasure, 
Conveys it in a borrowed name ; 
Euphelia serves to grace my measure, 
But Chloe is my real flame." 

Still more marked is the period when b b are verses 
with fewer or more stresses than a a (a c), as was the 
case with the divided Septenary (common measure) 
already noted, in which bb have fewer accents than 
a a (c) ; a case where b b have more is 

" Art thou pale for weariness 

Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, 
Wandering companionless 

Among the stars that have a different birth? " — Shelley. 



THE STANZA, OR STROPHE. 237 

The quatrain, most popular of stanzas and the sim- 
plest, is also common in five-stress verse. The rime- 
orcler abab is that of our most read poem, the Elegy. 
Dryden used it in Annus Mirabilis, in imitation of 
Davenant's Gondibert ; and we have seen even six- 
stress verse so combined. But there are more compli- 
cated forms. Thus to a quatrain we add a couplet, and 
so have the three-part stanza, consisting of two periods 
and the couplet ; or we can combine differently — say 
aabccb, — the form of Shakspere's song in Hen. VIII. 
— Orpheus with his lute ; or, with varying verse-lengths, 
of Wordsworth's Three years she grew in sun and shower. 
Thence we pass to the far more intricate combinations 
of lyric stanzas, — combinations which we shall not 
here attempt to analyze. The study of these forms is 
of more importance for our early poetry than for mod- 
ern, and is of too special a nature for our attention. 
Many treatises, from Dante's De -vulgari Eloquentia 
down to the dissertations of to-day, have been written 
on this subject : they are well summed up by Schipper 
in his Metrik y §§ 134-145. 

It will be enough for our purposes if we simply name 
a few prominent English stanzaic forms. Thus the 
favorite stanza of Chaucer, the Rime Royal of his Trol- 
lies and some of the Ca?tterbtcry Tales, has for its 
scheme ab abb cc, — e.g. {Prioresses Tale) : — 

" My conning is so wayk, O blisful quene, 
For to declare thy grete worthinesse, 
That I ne may thejweighte nat sustene, 
But as a child of twelf month* old, or lesse, 
That can unnethes any word expresse, 
Right so far* I, and therfor I you preye, 
Gydeth my song that I shal of you seye." 



238 POETICS. 

Somewhat different is the stanza of his Monk's Tale; 
ab abbcb c. Now if we add c to this, we have the 
famous Spenserian Stanza, — ab abb cb c c, — the last 
line being an Alexandrine, the rest, like Chaucer's 
entire stanza, five-stress " iambic " verse. Cf. Faery 
Queene : — 

m 

" And, more to lulle him in his slumber soft, 
A trickling streame from high rock tumbling downe, 
And ever-drizling raine upon the loft, 
Mixt with a murmuring winde, much like the sowne 
Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swowne. 
No other noise, nor people's troublous cries, 
As still are wont V annoy the walled towne, 
Might there be heard : but carelesse Quiet lyes 
Wrapt in eternall silence far from enimies." 

'Mr. Arnold has justly praised the "fluidity " of the 
Spenserian stanza. Thomson {Castle of Indolence) and 
Byron (Childe Harold) have added to its popularity. 
Simpler than the above is the easy pace of the stanza 
(Ottava Rima), used by Spenser in some minor poems, 
and chosen by Byron for his Don Juan, and by Keats 
for his Isabella : ab ab ab c c. 

It remains to mention two other kinds of stanza — 
what we may call the run-on stanza, and the irregular 
(and also regular) combinations of verses in the Ode. 
The Terza Rima of Dante's great poem was copied by 
Surrey (cf. the first poem in Tottel's Misc., ed. Arber), 
but without making it popular. Byron used it in his 
Prophecy of Dante, and Shelley in his Ode to the West 
Wind, though often the manner of printing conceals 
the metre. The stanzas of three lines are interlaced 
thus : aba — bcb — cdc — ded, etc. 



THE SONNET. 239 

" O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 

Yellow and black and pale and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes ! O thou 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low 

Each like a corpse within its grave, until 

Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow," etc. 

Cf also some of the French forms of verse mentioned 
below. 

The Ode is mostly written in arbitrary stanzas of 
varying verse-lengths : cf Wordsworth's Immortality 
Ode. But there is also a regular arrangement : cf the 
elaborate "Pindaric " Odes of Gray, — The Progress of 
Poetry and The Bard} For classical exactness, see the 
Choruses of Swinburne's Erecktkeus, where the elabo- 
rate structure of Strophe, Antistrope and Epode is 
managed with great ability ; the same is true of other 
Odes by Swinburne. 

§ 2. THE SONNET. 

There are certain combinations of verse in which a 
single element of rime-arrangement dominates the 
entire poem. Most practised and best known of these 
is the Sonnet. This word, as Mr. T. H. Caine (Sonnets 
of Tkree Centuries) has pointed out, meant originally " a 
little strain," and was used by Italian poets "to denote 

1 There are nine stanzas so arranged that the first, fourth, and seventh 
are alike in construction; likewise the second, fifth, and eighth; and the 
third, sixth, and ninth. 



24O POETICS. 

simply a short poem limited to the exposition of a 
single idea, sentiment, or emotion/' The next step 
was to confine its form ; fourteen lines became the fixed 
length of the sonnet. Lastly, these lines were required 
to be combined according to certain definite rules. 

Our English sonnets, therefore, are of different kinds. 
Mr. Gaine ranges under the first class sonnets like those 
of Shakspere. This form is by no means that of the 
strict Italian Sonnets ; " it does not ... as in the 
Italian form, fall asunder like the acorn into unequal 
parts of a perfect organism, but is sustained without 
break until it reaches a point at which a personal appro- 
priation needs to be made." That is, we have the 
symbol and then — mostly in the concluding couplet — 
the application. The Shaksperian form is thus : — 

ab ab c dc defefgg, 

that is, three quatrains with alternate rime, followed by 
a couplet. 

Different is. the form in the noble sonnets of Milton. 
The rimes follow Petrarch's rule of four different vowel- 
sounds, and the whole is divided into two unequal parts, 
the octave and sestette. The scheme is thus : — 

ab b a abb a\\ cdcdcd, 
though the sestette can be differently arranged. Still, 
even here it is merely the form that is Italian. The 
progress of the idea is English. The sense flows on 
without break from the octave into the sestette ; where- 
as the Italian sonnet was required at the end of the 
octave to have a complete change in the idea. 

Much closer to the Italian model is the sonnet as 
written by more recent poets. The excellence of 



FRENCH FORMS. 24I 

Shakspere's sonnet as critics esteem it, is the climax 
to which it rises by means of the closing couplet. Mil- 
ton's sonnet has been compared to a rocket rapidly 
thrown off, then " breaking into light and falling in a 
soft shower of brightness. ,, The later school, however, 
aim to write sonnets that shall reproduce the rise and 
fall of a billow, or its flowing and ebbing. The idea 
and the verse rise together in the octave, and in the 
sestette fall back again. The rime-order is Italian. 
For these. three kinds of sonnet, let the reader study 
a good specimen of each, and compare the relative 
advantages, — say Shakspere's When to the sessions of 
sweet silent thought (Sonnet 30) ; Milton On the Late 
Massacre in Piedmont (Avenge, O Lord) ; and Keats 
On first looking into Chapman s Homer. Wordsworth's 
sonnets sway between the two last kinds : cf. his West- 
minster Bridge with the sonnet beginning The world is 
too much with us. 

§ 3. FRENCH FORMS. 

Of late, considerable effort has been put forth to 
introduce into our English verse-system the forms 
known to French poetry (cf. p. 55) as Rondel, Rondeau, 
Triolet, Villanelle, Ballade, and Chant Royal. " The first 
three," says Mr. Gosse, "are habitually used for joyous 
or gay thought, and lie most within the province of jeu 
d' esprit and epigram ; the last three are usually wedded 
to serious or stately expression, and almost demand a 
vein of pathos." So far*, these forms are not naturalized 
as English measures ; but they are practised to a con- 
siderable extent. It requires an immense talent to 
write them with that ease and grace which they always 



242 POETICS. 

demand ; the slightest trace of effort ruins them. We 
have space for but one example, — a Triolet by Austin 
Dobson : — 

" I intended an ode 
And it turned into triolets, 
It began a la mode : 
I intended an ode, 
But Rose crossed the road 
With a bunch of fresh violets ; 
I intended an ode, 
And it turned into triolets." 

The Rondel and Rondeau are also light measures. The 
latter has thirteen verses and only two rimes. The 
Villanelle has also only two rimes, and is written in 
stanzas continued at pleasure (or as one's rimes last), 
and made up of three verses each, with a couplet at the 
end. The Ballade and the Chant Royal are much more 
complicated. The details of construction of all these 
forms, with examples, can be found in Mr. Gosse's 
article on Foreign Forms of Verse in the Cornhill 
Magazine for July, 1877. There are also examples in 
Adams' collection* of Latter-Day Lyrics ; and Mr. Swin- 
burne has recently published A Century of Roundels. 
The ingenuity, however, which is required for the con- 
struction of these stanzas makes it doubtful that they 
will ever voice the higher moods of poetry. The great 
lyric poets, like Goethe, do their best work in simple 
forms of verse, in that " popular tone " nearest to the 
heart of singer as well as hearer. 



INDEX. 



INDEX. 



ABBOTT, on Shaksp., 123, 215, 217, 220. Abstract, 84; for concrete, 93; 
personif. of, 101. Abraham and Isaac, 61. Academy, The, 134. Accent, 133 
ff. 139 ff. 144, 166; of word, 139, 192, 211, 220; of verse, 141, 145, 220; of sen- 
tence, 140, 171 f. 191, 211, 214, 220 f. ; see also Stress, Hovering Accent, etc. 
Action, in drama, 61, 72 f. ; in mysteries, 63 ; unity of, 70; surroundings of, 74. 
Acts (drama), 72. Adjectives, 85, 106. ^Eneas, 21. ^Eschylus, 75, 116. 
Albert, Paul, 40. Alexander, 21. Alexandrine, 180, 182, 184 f. 197, 202, 208, 
222, 227 f. 238. Allegory, 23 ff. ; in style, 102 ff. Alliteration, see Rime. 
Alliterating Romances, 178. Allusion, no. Anacreon, 52 f. Anapestic, 170, 
etc. Anglo-Saxon poetry, n, 86, 108, 112 f. 120; metres, 174 ff. 204. Anti- 
climax, 131. Antithesis, 55, 119, 126 if. Apostrophe, 121. Apposition, 105. 
Arabs, 154. Areopagus (club), 159. Ariosto, '34. Aristotle, 1, 42, 72, 74. 
Armstrong, 28. Arnold, Matthew, 4, 46, 51, 224, 229 f. ; 29, 49, 160, 208, 233. 
Arsis, 136. Arthur, King, 25. Assonance, 156. Avesta, 142. 

BACON, 84. Balance, 127, 172. Ballad, 34 ff. 38 f. 56 ; measure, 183, 197, 
231. Ballade, 55, 241 f. Barbour, 184. Barclay, Alex., 194. Barnefield, R., 
196. Batteux, Abbe, 41. Beaumont, 50; and Fletcher, 47, 52. Beast-Epic, 26. 
Bentley, 225. Beowa, 13. Beowulf, n ff. 86, 97 f. 112, 152, 173, 174 ff. Bestiary, 
26. Blair, 115. Blake, W., 46 f. 169. Blank Verse, 41, 151, 157 ff. 197 ff. 213 
ff. etc. " Bob,'' The, 201. Boccaccio, 33. Boileau, 32. Boniface, 24. Bow- 
ring, 43. Broadside, 38. Broken Construction, 125. Browne, G. H., 218. 
Browne, William, 30. Browning, E. B. 129. Browning, R., 38 ; 43, 47, 50, 
82, .106, 108, 203,207,209. Brunanburh, 19. Bulwer, 233. Burns, R., 47, 57 ; 
30. 3 2 , 33, 38, 43, 44, 46, 52, 113, 122, 203, 204, 205, 236. Butler, 32. Byrhtnoth, 
19, 3 6 > 3 8 - x 76. Byron, 33, 43, 44, 57 ; 122, 124, 158, 172, 182, 183, 204, 205, 

207, 212, 235, 238. 

CADENCE, 163. Caedmon, 20, 94, 173. Caesura, 135, 148, 193 ; see Pause. 
Caine, T. H., 239 f. Campbell, 38, 43, 155. Campion, 159, 230. Carew, 53,96. 
Carey, H., 82. Carriere, M., 42, 57, 80. Catachresis, 94, 107. Catechisms, 28. 
Catullus, 232. Cenotaph, 56. Chanson de Roland, 156. Chant Royal, 55, 
241 f. Chapman, 95 ; 34, 183, 197, 231. Characters (drama), 6i, 64. Charade, 
33. Charlemagne, 21. Charms, 56. Chatterton, 37. Chaucer, 22, 24, 32,76, 
173; Canterbury Tales, 20 ff. 26, 33 ; 116, 128 f. 152, 161, 164, 187, 189 ff. Boke 
Duchesse, 184, 187; House Fame, 24, 46, 179, 184, 187; Troilus, 21, 104, no; 
Legende G. W., 187; his verse, 172, 174, 186 ff. 203, 237. Child, 35, 36, 194. 
Children in the Wood, The, 39. Choriambic Verse, 232. Chorus, 9, 69, 74, 76, 
82, 233. Chronicle, 22. Church, 7, 20, 59. Cicero, 121. Classic Simile, 107 f. 



246 INDEX. 

no, 144. Clerkes, 45, 52, 182. Climax, 72 f. 130 f. Clough, A. H., 33, 53, 104, 
230. Clown, The, 60. Coleridge, 23, 38, 43, 130, 153, 182, 203, 232. Collins, 43, 
47, 102, 117, 160, 232. Combination, Figures of, 125 ff. Comedy, 22,61, 68,73 £ 
76 ff. Comic Histories, 32. Comparative Philology, 83. Conceits, 95 f. Con- 
crete (for abstract) , 84, 93. Congreve, jj. Consonants, 162. Constable, 196. 
Contractions, 164, 190 f. 214 f. Connexion, Tropes of, in ff. Contrast, Tropes 
of, 90, 114 f. ; figures, 121 ff. Convivial Lyric, 52. Costumes, 62 f. Couplet 
(short), 154, 179, 182, 184, 186; heroic, 31, 41, 187 f. 199, 210 f. 228, 234. Cow- 
per, 53 ; 27 f. 39, 49, 50, 103, 147, 205. Crashaw, 95. Crowley, 152. Cuckoo- 
Song, 46, 56. Cynewulf, 18, 20, 33, 152, 173. 

DACTYL, 138, 167 f. etc. Dancing, 1 f. 9, 134 ff. Daniel, S., 54, 106, 144, 
159. Dante, 24, 34, 76, 89, 94, no, 224, 237 f. Davenant, 237. David, 39. 
Death (lyric), 49 f. 116. Deborah, Song of, 119. Dekker, 40. Derzhavin, 43. 
Description, 28 f. 48. Dialogues, 16, 60,78, 82. Didactic, 22, 24,51. Dionysian 
Feasts, 59, 75 f. Dirge, 49. Distribution, 112. Dithyramb, 42. Dobson, A., 
242. Don Quixote, 21. Donne, 32; 119. Double Ending, 209, 216, 223; see 
Rime. Douglas, Gawin, 194, 197. Dowden, E., 77, 147. Drama, 58 ff. 70, 74 f. 
80 ff. ; rules for, 69 ff. ; parts of, 72; metre of, 63, 157 f. 180, 187. Drayton, M., 
38, 45, 148, 185, 227 f. Dream, see Vision. Dryden, 4, 79, 95, 126, 128, 145, 148, 
158, 210; 25, 32, 51, no, 237. Dumb-Show, 69, 72. Dunbar, 24, 178, 194. 

E (final), 188 ff. Ebert, 24, 38. Eclogue, 80. Edward, 60. Elegy, 49 f. 
Elegigb, 50, 232. Eliot, Geo., 51, 156. Elizabethan (lyric), 45 f. 199; see also 
Drama. Elision, 164, 190 f. Ellis, 194; 134, 171 f. 215, 220. Emerson, 73. 
Emotion, 42. End-stopt, 147, 149, 194, 211, 222 f. Enthusiasm, 41 f. Epic, 
10 ff. 19 ff. 33, 41; style, 109 etc.; verse, 187, 203, etc. Epigram, 55, no, 127. 
Epilogue, 72. Episodes, 16. Epithets, 85, 87. Epitaph, 55, 103. Equation of 
Claims, 173. Eumenides, 116. Euphemism, 116. Euphuism, 126, 152. Every 
Man, 65 f. 180. Exodus, 20, 94. Expanded Words, 214, 218 f. Exposition 
(drama), 72. 

FABLE, 25 f. Fair Helen, 36, 46. Falling Feet, 167. Farce, jj. Feelings, 
42. Feminine (pause), 149; (rime), 155, 193; (ending), 209, 236. Fielding, 
H., 82. Figures, 85, 118 ff. Fitzgerald (Omar Khayyam), 236. Five-Stress 
Verse, 195 f. 208 ff. Fleay, 213, 216. Fletcher, 81, 146, 216. Fluidity (verse), 
163, 238. Folk-Song, see Ballad. Fool (drama), 60. Foot, 135, 167, etc. 
Formula (epic), 16. Four (lyric), 235. Four-Stress Verse, 182, 186 f. 196, 203 ff. 
French Forms, 55, 241. 

GAMMER GURTON'S NEEDLE, 52. Gascoigne, Geo., 142, 152, 185, 
196 f. 214. Gawayne and Green Knight, 25, 178. Gawayne, Marriage of, 37. 
Gay, 26. Genesis, 101 f. 114. Genitive (style), 105 f. Germanic, 7 f. 86 f. 135, 
153, 233; metre, rule of, 144, 191. Gervinus, 60. Gesture, 106. Ghosts, 73. 
Gnomic Dialogue, 26. Goethe, 41, 57, 242 ; 30, 50, 72, 80, 230. Golding, 183. 
Goldsmith, jy, 95, 107; 28, 39, 123. Gorboduc, 68, 72, 82, 157. Gosse, E., 43, 
55, 241 f. Gower, 184. Grail, 20. Gray (Elegy), 50, 91, 112, 139, 192, 209, 237; 



INDEX. 247 

(misc.) 51, 93, 122, 239. Greek, 67, 140 f. 144 f. 176. Greene, R., 196 f. 230. 
Gregory, Pope, 24. Grimm, J., 3. Grimm, W., 14, 153. Guarini, 81. Guest, 
Dr., 146, 205 f. 226. 

HARMONY, 1. Harrowing Hell, 63. Havelok, 19. Hawes, S., 194. He- 
brew Poetry, 88. Hegel, 40, 108. Heinzel, 86. Heliand, 102. Hendecasylla- 
bic, 232. Henrysoun, 30, 194. Herbert, George, 43, 51. Herbert, Lord, 235. 
Heroic Verse, 168, 186 ff. 209 ff. Herrick, 47, 53, 84, 200 f. Hexameter, 31, 41, 
138, 228 ff. Heywood, J., 67. Heywood, Thos. 160. Hiatus, 165, 190. His- 
tory, 20, 32 ; historical present, 122. Homer, 40, 107, 109, 229. Hood, T., 50, 
120, 155, 200 f. Horace, 31, 72. Hovering Accent, 142, 186, 192, 206, 220, 224, 
226 f. Human Interest, 29, 48, 60. Hunt, L., 26. Hymn, 9, 42, 153. Hyper- 
bole, 115. 

IAMBIC, 167 ff. 187, 192, 195 f. 213 f. etc. Ictus, 138, 143 ; see Stress. Idyll, 
30, 80. Iliad, 18, 96, etc. Imagination, 2, 48, 90. Individual Author, 15, 57. 
Inflexional Endings, 188, 220. Instance, no. Interlude, 67. International 
Literature, 18. Invention, 1, 4, 15, 23. Inversion, 84, 123 f. Irony, 117. Ital- 
ian Influences, 54, 67, 173, 239. Iteration, 118 f., 

JOHNSON, DR., 32, 127, 131. Jones, Sir W., 43, 127. Jonson, Ben, 5, 72, 
160, 235 ; 51, 68, 81, 205 f. Judith, 20. Juvenal, 31. 

KAIMS, LORD, 116. Katharsis, 42, 74. Keats, 22, 34, 37, 47 f. 54, 91, 99, 
101, 105, 108, 119, 124, 126, 128, 145, 158, 198, 211, 227, 238. Kenning, 16, 87. 
King Edward, 177. King Horn, 19, 179. King John (Morality), 66. Kings- 
ley, C., 230. Klopstock, 230. 

LADY ISABEL, 37. La Fontaine, 26, 33. Lamb, 51, 209, 234. Landor, 
55. Lanier, 166. Latin, 59, 67, 140, 145, 153 ff. Layamon, 19, 152, 178 f. Lee, 
115. Legend, 9. Lessing, 5, 48, 70, 79, 107. Light Ending, 212, 223. Liquid 
(conson.), 162, 217. Litotes, 116. Locker, 53. Logical (style), 90, 113 f. ; 
(verse), 148. Longfellow, 22, 138, 159, 205, 230 f. Lord Randal (Donald), 60, 
204. Lovelace, 46, 115, 129. Lowell, 75. Lucretius, 28, 100. Lusty Juventus, 
66. Lydgate, 194. Lyly, 126, 152. Lyndesay, 194. Lyric, 39 ff. 199 ; (Nor- 
man), 154. 

MACAULAY, 3, 38. Madrigal, 45. Maker, 17 f. Malherbe, 49. Man- 
nyng, R., 185. Mapes, 52, 182. Marie de France, 26. Marlowe, 69, 85, 157 ; 
22, 45, 158, 198 f. 212. Marseillaise, 43. Marston, 32, 156. Marvell,48, 51, 158. 
Masculine (pause), 149; (rime), 155, 236, etc. Mask, 68, 81. Mass, The, 59. 
Mathematical (style), 90, in. Melody, 136. Messenger, 69, 71. Metaphor, 
85, 90 ff. 94, 96, 104. Metonomy, 94, 113 f. Metre, 1, 133 ff. 137, 170 ff. 63; 
(Germanic), 144, 191; (modern), 173 f. 186, 195 ff. 199; (dist'd from rhythm), 
185 f. Metrical Scheme, 170 f. 200, 208, 222 ff. Middleton, 216. MILTON, 54, 
84, 123, 149; (on rime), 157 f. 173, 198; (his verse), 224 ff. Comus, 25, 68, 81, 
98, 101, in, 115, 225. Horace, 232. II Pens. 48. L'AU. 48, 98, 129, 148, 169 f. 



248 INDEX. 

205 f. Lycidas, 39, 43, 49, 54, 118, 125, 162. Nat. Hymn, 104, 123, 220. Para- 
dise Lost, 34; (quoted), 91, 94, 100, 109, 112 ff. 116, 118 f. 120, 123 ff. 129 f. 149 f. 
161, 163, 212, 224 ff. Par. Reg. 187. Samson, 76, 233. Sonnets, 54, 164, 191, 
240 f. Minot, L., 180, 204. Minnesanger, 41, 45. Minstrels, 10, 13 f. 41. 
Miracle Plays, 59 f. 62. Monologue, 82. Mnemonic, 28. Mock-Tragedy, 82. 
Monte-Mayor, 30. Moore, T., 53 ; 202, 207, 209. Moral Plays, 59, 62, 64 ff. 
157. Morris, W., 22, 228. Murder of Abel, 61, 63. Music, 1, 41, 134, 136 f. 
143. Myrroure for Magistrates, 22 f. Mysteries, 59, 62 ff. 157, 180. Mythology, 
9, 96 f. 101. 

NAIRN, LADY, 201. Nash, T., 50, 229 f. National (heroes), 13,19; 
(legends), 19. Nature (see Lyric), 49. New Learning, The, 173. Nichol, J., 
105,130. Nomenclature (verse), 167. Noah's Flood, 61. Norman Influences, 
152, 154, 177. Number, Change of, 122. Nurture, Book of, 28. 

OBJECTIVITY (drama), 58. Occleve, 194. Octave, 54, 241. Odyssey, 
15 ff. 32. Ode, 42 f. 239. Omar Khayyam, 236. One-Stress (verse), 200. 
Onomatopoeia, 139, 161 f. Opera, 41, 81. Ormulum, 183. Ottava Rima, 238. 
Ovid, 161. Owl and Nightingale, 32, 184. Oxymoron, 128 f. 

PAGEANT, 62. Parable, 26. Paradox, 128. Parallel Constr. 126 f. 128. 
Parallelism, 120. Parfre, 64. Parody, 32. Passionate Pilgrim, 196. Pastoral, 
29, 81. Pathetic, 51. Pause, 139, 145 ff. 224; compensating, 146,218 f. ; rhyth- 
mical, 147, 203, 216, 226, 231 ; logical, 148 ; in Chaucer, 193 f. ; in Five-Stress 
Verse, 208, 221, 224; dramatic, 147. Pearl, The, 25. Peele, Geo., 162, 197. 
Period (stanza), 236. Periods of Eng. Verse, 173. Periphrase, 112 f. Per- 
sonality, 41. Personification, 9, 93, 96 ff. 104. Petrarch, 240. Phaer, 183. 
Phonetic, 134. Physiologus, 26, 104. Pictures (words), 83. Piers the Plow- 
man, Vision concerning, 25, 152, 177 f. Pindar, 41. Pitch, 134, 136, 143. Place 
(drama), 71. Platen, Count, 229. Plautus, 67 ff. 76. Poe, 231. Poema Mo- 
rale, 27, 182. Poetics, Writers on, 5. Poetry, 1 ff. 90; compared with Prose, 2, 
84, 134; style of, 83 ff. Pope, 101, 116, 126, 128, 145, 191, 210; 27, 30, 32,34,43, 
99, 119, 122, 126, 129, 131, 148, 162. Poulter's Meas., 185, 195. Praed, 33, 53. 
Prefixes, 217. Prior, 26, 32, 53, 127, 235. Prolepsis, 124. Prologue, 72. Prose, 
2, 84, 157. Provencal, 154, 235. Prudentius, 23, 38. Psalms, 42, 104, 120. 
Pun, 55, 120. Puttenham, 44 f. 119, 142, 159, 196. 

QUALITY, 136, 171. Quantity, 137, 143, 151, 166. Quatrain, 235, 237. 
Question, 124 f. Quintilian, 121. 

RALPH ROISTER DOISTER, 69, 180. Rant, 115. Reason, 17. Rec- 
onciling Drama, 61, 79. Reflective Poetry, 27, 42, 47 f. 51. Refrain, 234. 
Religion, 7, 56, 58 f. 97. Repetition, 1, 86, 118 ff. Resemblance (tropes), 90 ff. 
Resurrection, La, 59. Rhythm, 133 ff. 134, 136, 157; 135, 203, 214; 191 f. 
Richard (Lion-heart), 45. Riddle, 33. Riddle-Ballads, 27. Rieger, 174. Rime, 
135, 145, 150 ff. 234; Beginning-Rime, 151 f. 174 f. ; End-Rime, 152 ff. 176, 179, 



INDEX. 249 

etc. ; Perfect, 153, 156, 193 ; Clashing, 155 ; in Chaucer, 192 f. ; in Shakspere, 
213 ; Involved, 155 ; War on Rime, 159 ; Effect on Verse, 212. Rimed Phrases, 
152; Rimeless Verse, 160, 233. Riming Poem, 153, 177. Rising Foot, 167. 
Robin Hood, 36. Rochester, 55. Robt. Gloucester, 22, 185. Rogers (drama), 
62. Rogers (lyric), 40. Romance, 21; (words), 192. Romaunt Rose, 24. 
Rondeau, Rondel, 55, 241. Roxburghe Ballads, 38. Runes, 8. Run-on 
(Verse), 147, 149, 194, 211, 222, 226; (Stanza), 238 f. Ruskin,4, 146, 166. 

SACHSENSPIEGEL, 98. Sanskrit, 140. Sarcasm, 131. Satire, 31 f. Sa- 
turnian (Verse), 145, 153. Scenery, 29,62. Scheffel, 189. Scherer, 136, 143, 176. 
Schiller, 70, 232. Schipper, 138 f. 150, 166, 180, 182, 237. Scott, 158, 204 ; 23, 

130, 155, 201. Seneca, 67 ff. 82. Sense-group, 150. Sentimental, 51. Sep- 
tenary, 182 f. 196, 207, 236. Serenade, 81. Sestette, 54, 241. Seward, 150. 
Shakspere, 61, 70 ff. 78 f. 85, 95, 157, 173, 198 ; Verse, 213 ff. Narrative Poems, 
199, 213 ; All's W. no, 124, 191, 216 ; A. and C. 52, 106, 223 ; A. Y. L. I. 'jj f. 83, 
142, 218 ; Cor. 98, 105 ; Cym. 47, 49, 80, 114, 155, 217; Ham. 52, 58, 69, 71, 75, 
79, 82, 94 f. 100, 102 f. 106, in ff. 121 ff. 131, 216, 219, 221 ; H. IV., I. 102; II. 
106, 114; H. V. 44, 79, 82, 221; H. VI., 1.99,221; 111.98,117,128,221; H. 
VIII. in, 113 f. 209, 215 f. 222, 237; Interludes, 68; John, 92, 98, 103, 109, 113; 
J. C. 74, 103, 112, 120, 128, 130, 213, 215, 217, 219, 221; Lear, 29, 70, 74, 78, 86, 
92 f. 98, 102, 109, 161, 216, 219; L. L. L. 149, 213, 222; 152, 196; Macb.74 f. 92 f. 
99, 115, 117, 121, 124, 146, 161, 206, 219; M. for M. 44 f. 80, 105, 147; M. of V. 
45, 80, 91, 106, no, 114, 125, 219; M. N. D. 201, 213, 219; Oth. 52, 73 f. 93, 109, 

131, 215; R. II. 44, 105 f. 109, 114, 126, 219; R. III. 75, 215, 219, 221 ; R. & J. 
225; 58, 75, 81, 99 f. 114, 129, 218, 223; Sonnets, 240 f. 54, 92 f. 100, 119, 124, 
126, 213; Temp. 130, 149, 213, 220, 222; T.'N. 77, 202 f. ; Two Nob. Kins, ^j] 
W. T. 71 ; 213, 222. Shelley, 47 ff. 92, 163, 201 ff. 207, 212, 225, 236, 239. Sheri- 
dan, jj. Shirley, 50, 129. Sidney, 4, 30, 54, 71, 82, 101, 196. Simile, 86, 104 ff. 
Sincerity, 34, 40, 57. Sir Patrick Spens, 39, 60. Skelton, 181, 202. Slurring, 
164, 189, 191, 213, 215, 224 f. Solomon and Saturn, 27. Songs (drama), 69. 
Sonnet, 54, no, 239 ff. Sophocles, 75. Sounds, 160 ff. Southey, 200, 233. 
Spanish Poetry, 156. Spedding, J., 168, 222. Spencer, H., 86, 129. Spenser, 
25, 30, 44, 80, 91, 99, 146, 199, 209, 235; (stanza), 238. Spondee, 229. Stany- 
hurst, 230. Stanza (Strophe), 9, 157, 187, 199 ff. 210, 228, 234 ff. Sterne, 117. 
Still, Bishop, 52. Street-Song, 38. Stress, 133 f. 137, 166 f. 171 f. ; verse of one, 
200 f. ; of two stresses, 201 ; of three, 202 ; of four, 203 ff. ; of five, 208 ff. ; of 
six, 227 ff. ; of seven, 231. Strife between Summer and Winter, 60. Style, 2, 
83 ff. ; factors of poetical, 93, 96. Subjective Drama, 80. Subject-Matter, 2, 
7 ff. Sublime, 42. Suckling, 45, 53, 108. Supernatural, 23. Surrey, 54, 157, 
173, 185, 194, 212, 238. Sweet, H., 166, 171. Sweet, The (lyric), 42. Swift, 53, 
117, 127. Swinburne, 4, 168; 37, 47, 76, 91, 102, 142, 152, 158, 170, 201, 205, 207, 
211, 228, 232, 239, 242. Syllable, 133, 137; light and heavy, 150, 154, 157, 175, 
221, 227 ; crowding of, 161, 163 ; proportion of, 171 f. ; silent, 188 ; counting of, 
198; extra, 212, 221 f. ; dropping of light, 146, 174 f. 186, 221, etc.; inflexional, 
188, 220. Synecdoche, in. 



250 INDEX. 

TACITUS, 7 f. 14. Tagelieder,58,8i. Tasso, 34, 81. Ten Brink, 186 ff. 
194. Tennyson, 30, 44, 49, 56, 89, 93, 106 f. 113, 124 f. 139, 146, 162, 198, 204, 
213, 228, 231 f. 234 f. Tense, Change of, 122. Terence, 67, 76. Terza Rima, 
238 f. Thackeray, 53. Theocritus, 80. Thesis, 136. Thomas of Ercildoune, 
37. Thomson, 28, 114, 238. Three-Part Stanza, 237. Three-Stress, 202. Thre- 
nody, 39. Time, 1, 134, 139, 145; (unity), 70. Tone-color, 136. Tottel's Misc., 
45, 195. Tragedy, 22, 61 f. 68, 73 ff. 78. Tragi-Comedy, yj, 79. Transition 
Period, 173, 178 ff. Translations, 34. Transposed Accent, 187, 206, 212, 224, 
226. Travesty, 32. Tribrach, 168. Triolet, 55, 241 f. Triple (ending), 216; 
(Measure), 169 f. 207, 215, 223. Triplet, 234. Trochaic, 168, 192, 196, etc. 
Trochee, 167, etc. Troilus, 21. Trope, 84, 87, 88 ff. 118. Troubadours, 45, 
154. Tusser, 28. Two-Stress, 201. Tye, C, 163. 

UDALL, 69. Unities, 70 ff. 

VARIATION, 87, 92, 120. Vedas, 86. Vergil, 229; 28, 30, 33, no, 125, 
137. Verner, 141. Vers, de Societe, 53 ff. Verse, 136, 141 f. 166, 169, 200. 
Verse-Group, 150, 169. Vice, The, 60. Villanelle, 55, 241 f. Vision, 24 f. 96 ; 
(figure), 122 f. Voice, The, 160 f. 

WAGNER, 81. Waller, no. Ward, A. W., 58 f. 72. Weak Ending, 149, 
223. Weapons, 88, 97 f. Webbe, 159. Wesley, 42. Westphal, 135 f. Whet- 
stone, G., 71. Whitney, W. D., 162. Whittier, 38, 43, 50, 89. Williams, Sir 
C. H., 117. Wither, 45. Wolfe, 39. Wolff, 234 f. Wolfram, 25, 81. Words- 
worth, 27 ff. 43 f. 46 ff. 51, 54, 57, 92, 97, 237, 239. Word-play, 120. Wotton, 
51, 235. Wrenched Accent, 142, 198, 211. Wright, T., 35. Wyatt, 54, 155, 
173, 195 f. Wyntown, 184. Wyrd, 96, 102. 



